


Of Crows and Angels

by RainingPrince



Series: Of Crows and Angels [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adopted Character, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anathema's knife, Arranged Marriage, Crowley has a Garden, Crows, Extramarital Affairs, Fantasy Politics, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Kidnapping, Manipulative Relationship, Michael doesn't have pronouns, Michael's pronoun is Michael, Other, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Sending a baby away, Snakes and other critters, Trans Character, kids are brutal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-07-28 15:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20066182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainingPrince/pseuds/RainingPrince
Summary: He wasn’t entirely sure though, after that night, whether the blonde boy had ever been entirely real. He hadn’t ever come back that Crowley had seen. While the fancy carriages did occasionally come back to Hollyanne Manor, and he had taken to watching up close or sneaking back into the orchards hoping to catch a glimpse, he’d had no luck. After a few years, he became convinced that the day had been a dream, or a story he’d made up. The Angel was still his favorite page, though.~~~Alternatively: In which Crowley and Aziraphale are major players in a world-wide political snarl. Crowley was adopted to keep him safe and Aziraphale is a prince who wishes he was anything but. Yeah there's a little bit of sleeping beauty in there but there's no curse. This is very self-indulgent.





	1. Of Books and Blackberries

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: I have a habit of rechecking my work for a couple days after publishing, and now and again I will go back to fix typos or move some things around, please don't be alarmed if you come back and something feels different. It can take me a couple days but after that it's usually solid.  
I will add tags and characters as I go, I think. This is the beginning of the main story for "Of Crows and Angels", it's gonna switch back and forth between a lot of perspectives but I'll try to keep it as clear as possible.  
This is a very fantasy setting and I'm thinking I'll need a map eventually.  
~  
Side note: if you are AT ALL interested in beta-reading or writing this with me, I have a whole lot to do and would appreciate the help. This is a sort of complicated story and may end up being close to 20 chapters. Please leave a comment or message me on tumblr (flightyrainbow) so we can talk.

For what it’s worth, Martha is a very sweet woman with a very active ability to love and care for a child. However, she does not have a very active imagination, and there are many things in a child’s life that, unfortunately, require one. Anything less can feel boring, stagnant, and otherwise un-scintillating. 

For example, Martha knew how to cook exactly three things: mashed potatoes, tomato soup, and pie. It was always blackberry pie.

If Crowley had ever wanted any other kind of pie, he had to go to the market, or run out to the forest to find other kinds of berries, and he would have to prepare the pie filling himself. Martha was always happy to provide the crust part, but for whatever reason, anything beyond the crust didn’t make sense unless it was blackberries.

It was delicious pie, blackberries were abundant in the area so they were always fresh, and she could make a wickedly flakey crust.

However, one can eventually grow tired of pie, mashed potatoes, and tomato soup.

Another example of Martha’s lacking imagination, was baby names.

When the nuns had first handed her the baby, they had told her, “You can’t tell anyone where you got the kid, it wasn’t from us. Here have some blankets and suchlike, you’ll do fine.”

They had told her that the baby’s name was something starting with a “Joo” sound, but she didn’t quite remember it by the time the nuns left and she’d been too embarrassed to try to run after them just to find out. She couldn’t come up with another name, so she had just called the baby, “Baby” for 5 and a half months.

The only reason she stopped calling the baby “Baby” was because one night she had been sitting at the kitchen table fixing a hole in one of her skirts, when she looked over to see “Baby” crawling across the floor to try to get to a block which had been hurled with impressive strength just moments before.

It was rare that inspiration should strike Martha, but on this rare moment she put down her needle, and through her mind a new name rippled and bubbled and boiled over the edges.

“Crawly” it was to be.

For 3 and a half years.

This name had initially been deemed a slightly distasteful nickname by the other villagers. It wasn’t that they doubted that Martha would actually name a baby “Crawly”, but that they all suspected the baby had been adopted, and assumed that someone else had to have been involved with the situation, which meant somewhere, out there, the baby had a “proper name”. However, they could never get a straight answer out of her.

As the years went on, several other villagers took it upon themselves to grant other, less distasteful nicknames to the child, who never seemed to settle in one place very long. Some of the options given to the child were “Smudge”, “Scuttle”, “James”, “Bolt”, “Anah”, “Spitfire”, “Menace”, and many more.

The wide variety made the child smile, but they seemed so fleeting.

When they were nearly 4 years old, people around the village started to notice that, creatures followed them. Birds and cats and snakes and even insects, seemed magnetically drawn to the little redhead. She was often seen down by the lake, making faces at the fish, or playing with neighborhood raccoons who took a break from their scavenging to roll in the dirt.

However, the most obvious, were the crows. They liked to roost above Martha’s cottage, sometimes in droves, and they would keep an eye out for pests in the front garden. The second most obvious were the snakes. Though they were generally very rare in the region, being a cold and arid climate, there always seemed to be snakes around town. The villagers didn’t mind, it meant a decline in the rat and mouse population. But it was still unsettling to see them slither past now and again.

At some point during the child’s 5th year, it became an unspoken understanding that this child was one with nature, and so their name changed one more time.

“Crowley.”

This one stuck.

* * *

By the time he was 6 years old, Crowley had developed an incredible propensity for mischief. He pulled pranks, practical jokes, told wicked tongue twisters; anything he could think of.

From simply swapping Martha’s tea cozies on the shelf now and again, to an elaborate series of strings which had appeared overnight around the cottage of a particularly unpleasant man, who generally did little more than chop firewood and sneer at people. The man had had a lot of trouble untying the threads, and there were just so many it was hard to imagine Crowley had done it all himself. There had been some speculation, in the lower age ranges, that he had recruited the birds and raccoons, though there was never any proof of this.

* * *

Martha remembers one night, just a few months before his 7th birthday, Crowley had come home quietly, his face was awash in awe, with a hint of sadness.

It was such an unusual occurrence, that Martha had felt compelled to ask “You alright, my dear?”

He had nodded, and held up a rare treasure indeed. A book. Particularly, a properly bound book.

“Where’d you find a thing like that?” Martha had asked.

“In the woods,” Crowley answered, softly. “By the brook.”

“That’s strange it is darling,” She beckoned him over and leaned in to get a good look. “These are pretty rare among these parts. What’s it about?”

“Creatures. Amazing, beautiful, fantastical creatures!” There was a glow in his eye that Mary immediately loved. “Can you read it?” He asked.

“Oh darling, I’m afraid not. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and I was never really schooled myself. Take it to Mrs. Green just down the hill tomorrow. But for now you should probably get to bed.” She gently guided him, still enamored with his book, into his tiny bedroom and lit the candle. “Don’t stay up too late, dear.” She whispered as she left.

* * *

He wasn’t entirely sure though, after that night, whether the blonde boy had ever been entirely real. He hadn’t ever come back that Crowley had seen. While the fancy carriages did occasionally come back to Hollyanne Manor, and he had taken to watching up close or sneaking back into the orchards hoping to catch a glimpse, he’d had no luck. After a few years, he became convinced that the day had been a dream, or a story he’d made up. The Angel was still his favorite page, though.

Either way, Crowley had made up his mind about learning to read, particularly this book but anything would do. There were some Brivenae transcriptions in the book already, and it helped talking to Mrs. Green about the parts he didn’t really understand yet. Resources were scarce, but he had a handy habit of making deals that worked out for everyone involved. Usually they benefited him more but no one else had to know that.

* * *

In his 12th year, Crowley came across a traveler one day who happened to be reading by the road. He had some other books scattered beside him, one of which featured a script that Crowley had immediately recognized “What language is that?”

“This is Elochan, from the Hush, the Kingdom North East of here.” The traveler had waved a hand in the general direction of the kingdom of which he spoke.

Crowley traded the traveler a large collection of feathers and a bracelet for some books which offered a translation between Brivenae and the Elochan. He dreamed someday of using this book to explore the world, to find the fish people and giant lizards. And maybe one day, the boy who left the book behind.

* * *

A few months later, Crowley finally deciphered enough of the book to discover that it was full of fairy tales. That the creatures the book talked about, the gorgeous illustrations, had all been for pretend. It was a little disappointing, he had so looked forward to taming a giant lizard one day, but there would of course be other opportunities. He still kept the book, lovingly revisiting the old pictures. 

Now that he could read with some ease, he was beginning to teach the other children how to recognize the symbols and scratches on the pages.

* * *

When he was 15 Crowley was also known for his garden. The plants were luscious, tall and healthy, some of them taller than the tallest woman in town. He grew asparagus and yarrow, fennel and anise, poppies and several other medicinal herbs. He had learned from the books he collected that there were special ways to treat your plants, like cutting off certain parts so they could grow back refreshed; and watering certain plants more often than others. It fascinated him, and he absorbed it all hungrily.

* * *

On the eve of his 17th year, Crowley confessed to Martha that he wanted to study medicine, real medicine. He had been shadowing the town healer for years, a little old person in a little old shop tucked just behind the hall. They knew plenty about first aid, how to clean a cut and how to bandage a broken foot. But when it came to plants, their knowledge was limited to chewing bark for the pain, and poppies for sleep.

He wanted to go and find a doctor who would train him, bringing his plants and his books and set up shop in a city for a while. Martha thought it was a splendid idea, and they decided they would keep an eye out for an opportunity.


	2. Of Snow and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth of the Prince Aziraphale had been a much smaller affair than his two older siblings. The Kingdom had already been blessed with not just one but two strong, healthy heirs, and a third, while delightful, held just a hint less political weight.  
It had still been a grand party, other rulers from other kingdoms had traveled a long way to be present for the gala thrown on the night the new prince turned two months old.
> 
> ~~~  
Alternatively: A look at this world and its politics through the eyes of Queen Madephine

The birth of the Prince Aziraphale had been a much smaller affair than his two older siblings. The Kingdom had already been blessed with not just one but two strong, healthy heirs, and a third, while delightful, held just a hint less political weight.

It had still been a grand party, other rulers from other kingdoms had traveled a long way to be present for the gala thrown on the night the new prince turned two months old.

The rulers of the Wash, a family named Sable, had experienced an unexpected birth of their own and had declined to attend the parties as such. Their representative had been the first to arrive, one Lord Thaddeus Dowling II, an ambassador. He had arrived with his wife, a thoroughly unpleasant woman by the name of Beatrice, and their son Thaddeus Dowling III. Thaddeus Dowling III, or currently better known as “Junior” had, upon arriving, become swept up in a game he had come across in the gardens and spent the entire afternoon learning to play. The Dowlings had tutted quietly about his lack of discretion but decided to let him enjoy himself while they made small talk with the local nobility.

Second to arrive had been a warlord from the Territories. His given last name had long ago been discarded in favor of a title that most people didn’t like to think about. Balaam Wildblade. He carried with him an air of frustration, his beady bloodshot eyes constantly sweeping for threats. Yet he maintained a stillness few others could achieve, and had the uncanny ability to just slightly disappear, if he was quiet for long enough. He didn’t actually disappear, but he was so quiet that the minds of those around him would ever so gently forget he was there. Until he spoke, a deep gravelly voice that carried across any room with ease.

Balaam had arrived with a tiny three year old in tow, a byproduct of a raid no one cared to acknowledge. Her red hair was messy and looked ready to break at any second, and she was already beginning to move like her father.

King Samuel Havorymn and his Queen Ygraine had arrived in a somewhat bedraggled state, having travelled the farthest. They were curtly polite to Balaam, who was curtly polite back. 

Ygraine was exhausted, but not just from the travel. It had only been 7 months since she had returned from her Vacation, and the experience had drained her of most of herself. Samuel had tried to be encouraging, he had brought her flowers and gifts and let her sleep whenever she needed. But he was starting to worry that she may never fully recover.

They both knew, quietly, that the baby was safe. She had been discreetly adopted and was living with strangers somewhere on the continent, but it was still difficult to think about.

The Queen of the Scorch was so tired when they arrived that she immediately retired to her guest quarters, carefully touching her husband’s face with a wan smile and disappearing like a ghost.

This was going to be a difficult weekend.

* * *

The festivities were raucous, there had been plenty of drink and at least two fights. Though one of the fights had been a more friendly scuffle, two lads simply too drunk to care and had easily been pulled off each other in fits of giggles; the other had been slightly more serious.

That is, if one defines slightly as magnitudes.

Balaam Wildblade’s daughter, the tiny three year old with fire in her eyes, had been tastelessly grabbed by a strange man at a party, and dragged out from under a table. The man had made a remark about how “Children in the Territories aren’t taught any manners, they may as well be vermin.” Or suchlike, and seconds later found himself staring down at a sharp, wicked blade some fraction of an inch from his jugular.

The toddler had been released, and the knife vanished.

You could hardly call it a fight, but it was clear who had won.

This victory was further driven home by the swift and expertly aimed kick the child had made to the offending stranger’s leg.

No one heard from him after that night, and no one was sure they wanted to know why.

* * *

Later that night, Samuel and Queen Madephine sat in the Queen’s study, surrounded by silks and books. They drank a soft wine and talked about her children, and their futures.

“Of course, as he is the eldest, the Throne will likely fall to Gabriel.” Madephine said, “And it is my deepest wish that he do the job justice.” She stopped, and then turned to Samuel with a face he couldn’t place. “However, if he keeps going in the direction he seems to be headed, I doubt very much he’ll live long enough.” She sounded vexed.

“Oh come now, he’s only 8. He’s got plenty of time to turn himself around, all children are scoundrels at that age.” Samuel Havorymn had been a middle child of three, and had had many cousins, so he knew well what children were like. He smiled with fond memories.

“The boy does not know his head from his ass.” She mumbled into her glass. “And I suspect he’s become too reliant on the servants.”

“What of Michael?” The other asked. “How is Michael?”

“Michael is quiet, and seems to have taken an interest in sports.” Madephine smiled widely. “Just the other day I watched Michael kick a ball clear across the courtyard and it ricocheted off the wall, nearly taking a pigeon out of the sky. It was quite exciting.”

“That’s some impressive torque for a 6-year-old.”

“I know,” The Queen said dreamily.

“Do you have any hopes for your newest?” In the firelight, Samuel’s heavily freckled face almost seemed to dance faster. His heavy brow was slowly falling, as he quietly considered his thoughts.

Madephine watched him silently for a moment, taking another sip. “I want him to have love in his life.” She said after a few moments. “I want him to be a strong, uniting force, not only in my family but in this world. I know that every parent hopes that their children will leave a positive mark, but I have this feeling in my gut that Aziraphale will be breathtaking.”

The King sighed, a genuine smile on his face though it was shaded with pain.

“I’ve long thought,” Madephine continued quietly, “That I would like to see our Kingdoms united. I had so looked forward to the news of a child in the family. But it’s never come.” She looked at him with an interesting mixture of sadness and hope. “Pray tell, is there even a small chance of a baby on the way?”

Samuel was taken aback. He wasn’t entirely sure he could trust himself to stay upright, the memory of his lost daughter came back to him in a wave of guilt. He sighed. “M’afraid not, your Majesty. False starts, they’re piling up.” He paused, and considered. “Though I do have to admit, the offer doesn’t sound unappealing. Would we be able to make it work though?”

She placed her glass on the table beside her. “I’m well aware of your current… tensions with the Territories. I was shocked to hear of the attempts on your life last year, and the incident with Donna. It must be so difficult to trust anyone after the last few years.” She stood up, and ran her hands over the spines of the books lining the small room. “I rather hope you’ll come to trust me, if not now then soon.”

“Madephine…?” Samuel was a bit lost in her train of thought, though this was not unusual. The Queen of the Hush had a reputation of being forgetful, whimsical even.

“Perhaps I could be of some… assistance with your problem.” She turned to face him and he suddenly remembered what they had been talking about. “Send aid, troops to your border. And an ambassador. It’s been too long since our lands worked in tandem.”

An ambassador? Troops?

“Won’t this invite unrest in the Territories?” Samuel wondered aloud. “Surely it would be unwise to provoke them.”

The Queen raised one perfect eyebrow and her smooth dark face lit up. “Perhaps some unrest will do the world good,” She drawled, an unmistakable ring of mischief in her voice.

* * *

When Aziraphale was six years old, he was dragged to a small village in Briven. A place he had not been particularly excited to visit, however the Queen had insisted and you didn’t say no to the Queen. Especially when she also happened to be your mother. There was to be a grand party, involving many delicious foods and enchanting songs.

The celebration was held in a neutral location, as a symbol of friendship and the newly formed alliance between the Hush and the Scorch. The ambassadorship program had been going splendidly, the additional assistance from the Hush troops had given the Scorch the much-needed relief from the efforts of the Territories, there were even rumors that the borders were shifting further than they had in many years since.

However, it had been not the party itself that had held Madephine’s thoughts all weekend, but the young child she had seen in the river on their way to the Manor proper.

She had suspected, for many years in fact, that such a child could exist. She couldn’t know for certain, but in the back of her mind she could not shake the feeling of confirmation. She didn’t say a word about it to anyone, she couldn’t. Not yet. She genuinely wanted this truce to work out, and she feared that if she were correct, speaking too soon would spook Samuel and Ygraine. Both of whom were here. She wondered if they had any idea of the significance of this location.

Eventually, she decided, she didn’t need to know.


	3. Of Rivers and Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prince was wandering the halls of his home, rubbing tears from his eyes and trying not to look quite so glum in front of the guards. It didn’t really matter that there weren’t any guards in this particular hall, but he had to keep up appearances; just in case.  
The reason for his tears, and the slight wobble in the knee when ever he stepped with his right foot, was that he had just been in an argument which had ended badly. The altercation in question had been the unfortunate byproduct of a long-standing feud, and had resulted in a skinned knee, several angry words, and a governess pulling Gabriel out of the room for a scolding. Lastly, Aziraphale had fled.  
He wasn’t particularly used to this wing, it was usually guest quarters and he rarely had guests he wanted to see. He had simply needed a few minutes to cool off, and he was starting to wonder if perhaps the kitchens had any cornbread left when he head voices in the distance.
> 
> ~~~  
Alternatively: Aziraphale runs off to cool down and then something really interesting happens.  


When Aziraphale was 7, he was again summoned to a foreign place, this time much farther away. The Scorch was a very big change of pace, the weather was unfamiliar and far too warm for his liking. The palace he and his family were staying at was made of light stones, it shone from a distance and the floors weren’t too hot to the touch. He had been wandering aimlessly about the palace for about an hour, closely followed by a governess who liked to hum and strictly frowned upon any messy sort of activity.

He had only narrowly escaped Gabriel minutes before, hiding behind a wall and holding his breath as his brother, older than him by a full eight years, had loudly argued with one of the local girls about a topic that Aziraphale didn’t particularly care to hear about. He had briefly taken a look from behind the wall, determined that Gabriel was facing away from him, and scuttled across the doorway as fast as he could. His governess hadn’t been so concerned with discretion, she had simply paused while he hid and then walked casually by.

There were plenty of things he liked about the woman, but her patience surrounding his fraught relationship to his siblings deserved a gleaming commendation, in his book.

He slipped down a hallway to his left, taking a good look around and then decided randomly on a doorway near the end. As soon as he turned through it, he heard someone shrieking with laughter. As he and his governess got closer to the sound, he began to smile, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

They came to the end of the hall, and the door opened up to a beautiful garden full of trees, sand, and not too far from where he stood, a river.

“A river? In a palace?” The governess sounded quite surprised.

“Can I play?” Aziraphale asked her, his bright eyes lit up and he gave her such an expectant, hopeful smile.

“You haven’t got a suit, my Prince.” She said, tutting at him.

“Please, I’ll only get my feet wet, look!” He reached down and pulled his trousers up a little, folding them carefully as best he could. He was suddenly hit with the memory of that boy, with red hair, the one the crows liked.

His governess regarded his messy work for a moment. “That won’t do at all,” she said, and knelt down to reach for his trousers. She pulled them down from where they were folded. Aziraphale’s heart sank, but just as quickly it soared again when he realized she was re-folding them up his legs with a much more practiced grace. “You would have had them falling down and getting soaked you would,” She muttered.

When she was done, she stood back up and held out her hand. “Give me your shoes.”

Aziraphale pulled his shoes off as quickly as he could manage, removed his socks as well when prompted, and as soon as his governess gave a little nod he went sprinting into the shallows.

* * *

Four years later, the Prince was wandering the halls of his home, rubbing tears from his eyes and trying not to look quite so glum in front of the guards. It didn’t really matter that there weren’t any guards in this particular wing, but he had to keep up appearances; just in case.

The reason for his tears, and the slight wobble in the knee when ever he stepped with his right foot, was that he had just been in an argument which had ended badly. The altercation in question had been the unfortunate byproduct of a long-standing feud, and had resulted in a skinned knee, several angry words, and a governess pulling Gabriel out of the room for a scolding. Lastly, Aziraphale had fled.

He wasn’t particularly used to this wing, it was usually guest quarters and he rarely had guests he wanted to see. He had simply needed a few minutes to cool off, and he was starting to wonder if perhaps the kitchens had any cornbread left when he head voices in the distance.

He briefly considered leaving, he didn’t want to eavesdrop, but then he heard his mother speak. The tone of her voice made him pause. She sounded… sad.

Aziraphale hadn’t meant to move closer. Not consciously at least. However, he found his feet were already carrying him down the hall, and he was listening intently before he could stop himself. And, he figured, if you found yourself moving forward not of your own accord, there was no resisting. Clearly it was a sign. Of course.

“How could you have possibly found out?" A woman asked, she sounded close to tears. “We told no one!” He thought he recognized the voice, but couldn’t place it.

“No one told me,” He heard his mother say. “But... I think I saw the child.”

“You what?” A third voice, much deeper; and his voice carried an anger to it that Aziraphale hadn’t heard in a long time.

“It was years ago. I had my suspicions from the start but when I saw that hair, your spots,” The Queens voice was soft, and pacifying. “It hit me like a runaway carriage. There was no mistaking it.”

“You knew. All this time and you said nothing?” The deep voice asked, a hint of the anger was missing this time. “Why?”

“Well no, I suspected. But I said nothing because I wanted to hear it from you.”

Aziraphale heard someone sniffle. “Why tell us now?” asked the unknown woman. “Why bring this up?”

“Because… Wildblade has made the Hush an offer that I need to turn down, but if I do it wrong there could be dire consequences. And I have a notion that could work but I need your help.”

“Wildblade? What’s he got to do with this?” The man grumbled.

The young prince vaguely remembered this name, and it took him a moment to put a face to it. Ah yes. He shuddered, remembering the previous autumn, the strange girl with the frizzy red hair, who had followed him around for weeks asking him to play. He didn’t like what she called “playing.”

“First, before I tell you anything else, I need to know. Did you-”

Aziraphale froze, the mounting mortification in his stomach quickly overwhelmed his senses and he flailed for any grip on his faculties for a solid three seconds. He had sneezed.

An absolutely astounding instance of situational humor, a cock-up for the ages, what a cliche! He rather thought it would fit right nicely into the mystery novel he had read three days prior.

He heard someone approach the door against which his ear was currently pressed, and this was enough to get him moving again. He took off back down the hall, taking the first turn he could find, and ran.

He didn’t get very far. It wasn’t that he wasn’t an active child, he just preferred to be active slowly, for shorter periods of time than either of his siblings; and most of his cousins. His heart was pounding in his ears.

But it was far enough. He didn’t hear anyone coming after him, and walking at a brisk pace was still taking him away from the crime scene.

He wondered, as one does after such an incident, what the adults had been talking about. And then he remembered about the cornbread.


	4. Of Coins and Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley was, perhaps a little unnecessarily, perched on the roof of the hall. A spot he had found useful for several years now, and especially today. He had his ear pressed to a small crack in the roof, through which he had overheard many meetings among the elders, parties, trade agreements, and foreign affairs through the years. It leaked occasionally when there was rain, and the crack had been fixed several times, but somehow it always managed to come undone.  
“We realize how unorthodox this is,” The other nun was saying. Or at least, he thought it was one of the nuns. “But I do believe we warned you this might happen. Right from the start.”  
~  
Alternatively: Crowley and Martha have some unexpected guests, and a hard conversation.

There are many points in life where one can argue that while a particular event may be heartbreaking, unexpected, and even traumatic; it is, ultimately, the best possible thing for you.

Leaving a particularly unstable relationship, for example. Or dropping a delicious slice of cake right after you buy it, only to find out later that everyone else who had eaten from the same shop that day had got food poisoning.

This was, Crowley hoped, one of those days.

Guards and soldiers in the region were not particularly few and far between, the mercenaries from the Territories loved to drink raucously at the small tavern near the river. And the Manor had all sorts of important guests who desired protection for one reason or another.

But this was different, he could feel it in his bones. He could practically taste it in the air. The birds circling over head were anxious.

Something was about to change.

There was a small procession coming up the hill. Crowley had seen them from a good way off and expected them to stop near the center of town, near the great hall. It was the first time he had seen so many finely polished suits of armor, and the people in the center of the procession were dressed head to toe in finery. There were perhaps three or four nobles, he couldn’t get a good look with all the moving about.

As they got closer, he could begin to make out that one of them was a tall, dark-haired man who glowered in a fashion one only does when one is too exhausted to do much else. He wasn’t angry, in fact Crowley almost thought he looked hopeful, but it was hard to tell. The man’s hair fell over his face in delicate, round curls, and he was covered in large freckles which almost hid his tan skin underneath.

Beside him was a woman, who was more petite. She had red-auburn hair that reminded Crowley of his own, lighter skin than the man Crowley figured was her husband, and she was the most excited of the small group. She looked gentle, despite her angular shoulders, and her dress was a very soft blue.

There was another woman, much taller than the first, or perhaps it was just her attitude. Her hair was much shorter, braided tightly on one side, and a little bit darker, however it seemed clear the two of them were related.

There were also, he noted, two nuns.

At the forefront of this little parade, was Mrs. Green, looking for all her worth quite bewildered.

They hadn’t stopped near the great hall. They hadn’t stopped at all, in fact, and he began to worry that they were headed towards his own cottage. What had he done?

He was hidden up in a tree at the edge of the garden when the small procession finally came to a halt, Mrs. Green telling them “This is the place alright, but like I told you your Majesties, there’s no Juliette here. Just Martha and little Crowley.” She paused. “Well, not so little anymore of course, just turned 17 that one.”

Crowley hardly dared breathe. Who was Juliette?

One of the nuns surveyed the cottage, and turned to the nobles. “This is the place.” She confirmed.

“Thank you.” The woman with the shorter hair stepped closer to Mrs. Green, and pressed some coins into her hand. It was quite a lot of money, actually. From his vantage point, Crowley could see at least three gold coins, which Mrs. Green stared at for all of six seconds before slowly closing her hand. She dropped the coins in her pocket, and turned to retreat back down the hill without another word

The man with the dark hair nodded to one of the guards, and then at the cottage. The guard obliged, marching forward and knocking loudly on the wooden door. Crowley winced, knowing all too well that a knock that sharp would have acoustic consequences in their tiny home.

“Just a minute!” Martha called from inside, sounding more than a little miffed. “I’ve told you before, no need to knock so hard!” The guard stepped back a few paces, and the nobles gathered as close as they could among the vibrant foliage. None of them said anything.

Moments later, the door opened, and Martha looked up at the strangers in the door with such a look of shock that Crowley at any other time would have been hard-pressed not to giggle at.

“Can we come in?” The tall man asked, in a gruff but not unkind voice.

Martha gawked at the collection of strangers on her door. “I don’t rightly think so!” She said.

The nobles in front of her were quite nonplussed.

Quickly, Martha gathered her thoughts and her face flushed quite red. “Uh, erm, I mean, I don’t believe you’d all fit, this cottage is only built for two, you see.”

The strangers nodded, a little bemusedly, and accepted the explanation. “Then perhaps, there is another place we could speak?”

* * *

Martha, the three strangers, both nuns, and one guard sat in the back room of the great hall, the largest building in town and one of the few private spaces available. It smelled of several different kinds of smoke. The rest of the guards stood around the hall in lazy formation.

“He?” The man asked.

“We gave you a girl,” One of the nuns said, “Or at least, we thought she was a girl.”

“Oh, aye, yes, was when he got here. Was a couple months back too. But he’s been leaning towards boy for several years now, best to err on that side.”

"Does he have the birthmarks, on the shoulders?" One of the ladies asked.

"Yes he does. So many different kinds of spots. Maybe I should have called him 'Spots' instead!" Martha’s laugh was infectious, and it always made Crowley feel better.

Crowley was, perhaps a little unnecessarily, perched on the roof of the hall. A spot he had found useful for several years now, and especially today. He had his ear pressed to a small crack in the roof, through which he had overheard many meetings among the elders, parties, trade agreements, and foreign affairs through the years. It leaked occasionally when there was rain, and the crack had been fixed several times, but somehow it always managed to come undone.

“We realize how unorthodox this is,” The other nun was saying. Or at least, he thought it was one of the nuns. “But I do believe we warned you this might happen. Right from the start.”

“Yes I do remember that, but it’s been the better part of 17 years. That child is my life’s work, you see, and I’m not just handing him off to you. Especially not when he doesn’t even know what’s going on. You’ve got to ask ‘im.”

“Well, of course. But he wasn’t with you so we’re going to have to wait until he turns up.” One of the noble ladies said, he guessed the taller one.

“Does he know that… he’s… adopted?” The other woman asked.

“I never hid that from him.” Martha said. “He knows I couldn’t have a kid, and he knows that someone else couldn’t have him. And he knows that I love him from the bottom of my heart. He’s a good kid, that one. A little peculiar, sure, but he’s smart.”

A crow landed on the roof not far from where Crowley sat. It ruffled its feathers, hopped about a couple times, and cawed conversationally at him. Martha stopped talking. Crowley’s stomach dropped.

“Is that you, Crowley?” Martha called out. Crowley didn’t answer. “Is that one of your friends didn’t know you was eavesdropping? Gave you away.” Still no response.

Had Crowley been inside, he would have laughed out loud at the faces of the strangers as they stared at Martha. Certainly this woman was mad, she was shouting at a crow on the roof? Had this been a mistake, was there even a child at all? Had this woman been raising an actual crow all this time? Did crows even live that long?

“Crowley, if that is you, get down from up there and come inside like a proper person. This concerns you too.” Martha called out again. She knew him well.

For a few moments, there was silence, and then the strangers could hear the shuffling of feet and legs on the roof. Before he dropped below the edge, the crow gave him an apologetic look. “Nark,” Crowley mumbled.

He was on the ground, around the corner and wandering into the great hall in less than a minute. The guards eyed him suspiciously but said nothing when the tall woman with braids appeared in the doorway and waved him in. She said nothing, but it was clear from her face that there was a lot of emotion she was trying to hide.

His arms and legs felt numb and he wanted to run off and hide. But Martha had caught him in the act, so it was probably a safer bet to just get this over with now and run away later to soak it in. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be soaking in yet, just that it was probably very big. And it had something to do with before Martha.

He had been far too young to remember anything before Martha, by her estimates he was only about a month old when the nuns had dropped him off. He had occasionally wondered where he had come from. But he had long ago decided that he didn’t need to be there, and here was so wonderful anyway.

He entered the room cautiously, all eyes on him, and he suddenly felt very self-conscious.

It wasn’t a feeling he experienced with any degree of regularity in his life, so this was a particularly bad bout. His dress was crooked, falling off the shoulder, the rope belt was frayed, his hair hadn’t been properly washed in a few days and his feet were grass-stained and muddy, and bare. He usually didn’t mind, but the way these people were dressed was far more extravagant, and he shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Juliette,” The woman with long red hair breathed. She stood up, and rushed across the room toward him. He backed away, instinctively. The look on her face made his stomach twist. “I’m… I’m sorry I shouldn’t have,” She started to say, looked down at her hands, and then clasped them behind her back. “I got carried away, I’m sorry.”

“Who’s… Juliette?” Crowley asked.

“Well,” one of the nuns said, an unidentifiable look on her face. “That used to be your name.”

* * *

The conversation had been a long and exhausting one for everyone involved. 

Introductions had been awkward, but Crowley learned that the man with black hair was actually King Samuel Havorymn of the Scorch, that the shorter woman with red hair was named Ygraine; and the taller woman with braids was her sister, Donna. He had also learned that Samuel and Ygraine were his biological parents.

After that, the King and Queen explained their situation. They told Crowley and Martha that they wanted to return their child to the throne, that they needed the security of an heir and that now was the time to do it. They explained that the conflict with the Territories was reaching a breaking point, and they had a plan to make powerful allies, and they needed Crowley’s help. They didn’t tell him how he could help, they said he would only find out if he agreed. They couldn’t risk it getting out.

Crowley was very taken aback by all this information. “You need… MY help?”

“Yes, child. Only you can help us now.” Samuel said.

Martha was not having it. “The child has no understanding of court life, he’s never even been to the city. You can’t just turn up out of the blue and expect him to solve all your problems. You’re adults, you have no business putting this kind of pressure on a child.”

Crowley had agreed with Martha, but he knew he couldn’t have expressed himself so eloquently at the moment. He was very grateful to have had her in his life, he decided, not for the first time.

“You’re entirely correct, and we wouldn’t have come if we thought there was any other way.” Samuel retorted. “If we don’t act quickly, our opportunity will be lost and perhaps with it, the entirety of the Kingdom.

“You’re playing with fire, your majesty.” Martha said coldly.

“Why did you send me away?” It was hardly a whisper.

The adults in the room stopped short.

“What was that?” Samuel asked.

“If you’re my parents, my birth parents, why did you send me away? I find it hard to believe that a King and Queen wouldn’t be able to protect a child, you’re supposed to be powerful.”

There was silence for several breaths, and Crowley almost regretted speaking up in the first place.

Ygraine finally spoke for the first time in several minutes. “We’re only human, love.” She said softly. “There were people trying to kill us, bad people who want to take our land and harm our subjects. We had to make sure that you would live.”

“So you sent me away? Didn’t even come to visit?”

This time it was Samuel who answered. “If we came to visit it would give away your location. If the bad people found out where you were, they would find out who you were. And it would all have been for naught.”

“Well you’re here now, aren’t you?” Martha spoke up. “You’re still putting him in danger.”

“Who are the bad people?” Crowley asked.

The royals exchanged worried looks. “Wildblade, and his cronies.” Donna was the first to answer. “Are you familiar with how the territories came to be?”

“I’ve heard rumors about a split. And a war over who should rule the Scorch.” Crowley said. “Is it true then?”

Donna nodded, her eyes warm and sad. “They are ruthless murderers, and unfair leaders.”

Crowley believed her. He hadn’t met many people who had been through the Territories. But those who had told stories of raids; brutal, and short, and effective. Stories of a wild and selfish man, who ruled through fear and violence. And worse.

“They killed most of my family.” Samuel said, a gruffness in his voice that sounded like the beginning of a sob. “My brother and sister, my father, aunts, uncles and several cousins. We couldn’t take the chance of losing you too.”

The room was silent.

Carefully, Crowley considered the risk. If he decided to go with these people, it would undoubtedly be very dangerous. But what if it went well? He wasn’t clear on the details, but it sounded like he had an opportunity to help these people avoid a war they clearly didn’t want to see happen. It was a lot of responsibility, to be sure, but the consequences of an all-out war could devastate the continent, including Briven, and he suddenly realized he didn’t want to see the world end.

“What about my studies?”

“What studies?” Donna asked.

“I’m studying medicine and botany, will I have time to study if I go with you? Court life sounds very busy and boring and I doubt very much I’d enjoy it.”

“We will find you the best tutors, cover all expenses, and find you an apprenticeship whenever you’re ready.” Samuel said, obviously grateful for the change of subject. “The finest doctors in the land would jump at the chance to tutor a royal heir.”

Crowley was suddenly much more excited about the prospect of going to the capitol. He could learn from the best! And he wouldn’t even have to pay for his schooling, which had been a worry for quite some time now. Another thought popped into his mind. “Will I be allowed to come back to visit?” He asked.

Martha suddenly looked close to tears. She reached out to him, and he took her hand to ground them both.

“Whenever you want to.” Ygraine promised. Her voice wobbled just a little, but she looked at Martha with all the strength and empathy she could muster. “Martha can even come with you for a while, if she wishes.”

“I’ll go.” Crowley said with finality. “I’ll help you.”

Relief rippled through the air the room, several sighs were finally released, and Crowley suddenly realized he had no idea what he had gotten himself into.


	5. Of Cabs and Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interesting wrinkle to being royalty that Crowley had entirely failed to foresee, was that the King and Queen insisted that he /dress/ like royalty.  
The new trousers itched and hugged in all the wrong places, and Crowley begged and begged to be allowed to keep his own clothes.  
Eventually, a bargain was struck, and Crowley was given a dress. It was significantly more comfortable than the itchy trousers, but it didn’t lend itself to climbing trees any better. And he was admonished within an hour for lifting the skirt to scratch an itch. Twice.  
~  
Alternatively: Crowley isn't sure yet how to feel about these strangers in his life yet but it's not boding well.

Crowley decided very early on, that if he was going to be able to deal with suddenly being royalty, he was going to do it his way.

Martha was more than used to his pranks, and while she would laugh good-naturedly when they came, she still never saw them coming. And while the rest of the village could usually take a joke (with few, notable exceptions) here were some new people who didn’t yet know what to expect from him.

This, Crowley decided, was an advantage best kept secret for now. He would wait a while, possibly get all the way to the city, and then pull off something absolutely spectacular to commemorate his arrival. He had to plan.

* * *

An interesting wrinkle to being royalty that Crowley had entirely failed to foresee, was that the King and Queen insisted that he  _ dress _ like royalty.

The new trousers itched and hugged in all the wrong places, and Crowley begged and begged to be allowed to keep his own clothes.

Eventually, a bargain was struck, and Crowley was given a dress. It was significantly more comfortable than the itchy trousers, but it didn’t lend itself to climbing trees any better. And he was admonished within an hour for lifting the skirt to scratch an itch. Twice.

He still packed his own clothes, and resolved to try to find some compromise in wardrobe when there were, presumably, more options in the city. He also resolved to wear his own clothes whenever he could and social conventions be damned.

The King and Queen spent a week in Hollyanne Manor, and insisted that Crowley stay with them, while they gave him a crash course in manners and the current political climate. It was exhausting, and Crowley had little interest or understanding of what they were talking about.

He had originally been horrified at the prospect of actually stepping foot  _ into the manor _ . He’d only ever looked in through the windows while stealing fruit. He found that the rooms were much more boring in person than they had ever seemed from an outside perspective.

He wondered if there was a metaphor in there, somewhere.

* * *

By the end of the week, Crowley had begun to pull off a believable impression of a royal heir. His hair was clean and braided, his clothing was rumpled but not muddy, and he had started to talk a bit more like the Havorymns. His walk left much to be desired, but he flatly refused to let them train it out of him, and they stopped trying fairly quickly.

When the end of the week came, Crowley was allowed to roam free. His lessons were over for now, and the moment he woke up he took off into the forest to do what 17 year olds do when alone.

He didn’t like the idea of saying goodbye to this place, so instead he said “I’ll see you later” to the trees, birds, snakes and raccoons. He said “‘till next time,” to the river, the fish and the leaves beneath his bare feet.

He also took the time to say “I’ll be leaving for a while, but I’ll be back to visit.” to a few of the people. Particularly Mrs. Green, and the Healer, but there were a few others.

He also made sure to leave a nasty surprise for Hastur, who upon his return to the shabby cottage that evening, would find some uninvited guests in his pantry.

And for a time that afternoon Crowley lay on a grassy hill, where he had once showed an angel how to hold a snake, and dozed off.

* * *

It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t understand on some level that going all the way to Gattenfall would require getting into the carriage. It was that he hadn’t previously considered it at all. He had been quite shocked when he had left the Manor in the morning, all dressed up, nervous but excited about the journey, and had heard Samuel say the words “Bring the carriage around.”

He’d only ever seen carriages, and while they were lovely to look at, he found himself reluctant to go inside. It felt forbidden, almost. A barrier he had always assumed would exist between himself and the “Upperclass”. It was at this moment that the entire experience suddenly became **Very Real**.

Numbly, he allowed Samuel to hold his hand as he climbed the step of the carriage. It looked precarious and he was grateful for the support. But something stalled in him as he raised his foot from to actually step into the cab.

“You okay, dearie?” Martha asked from just behind him.

“Gimme a second,” He said, trying to psyche himself up.

No one said anything else for a few seconds, and then Crowley found himself climbing back down. “I think I’ll walk for a while, if that’s alright.” He mumbled.

“Of course dear.” Martha said softly. “I’ll walk with you.”

* * *

It was a very long journey, and while Crowley probably could have walked for several more miles, Martha’s legs were not as young as his. She had to stop and get into the cab eventually, and he hadn’t felt like walking without her.

Carefully, he had stepped into the cab. It helped with Martha already inside to help him up, and he sat down gingerly on the seat. It was lightly cushioned, like the chairs in the manor, and he wondered if everything would be cushioned at the palace.

Martha and Ygraine talked quite a bit, and they seemed to get along well enough. But there was a tension there, a stress Crowley could pick up on, but he didn’t want to touch it.

Conversation eventually turned to him.

“Where did Crowley come from anyway?” It had been Samuel who asked.

“It used to be ‘Crawly’ but the crows just kept showing up wherever he went.” Martha said, a little embarrassed.

“Crawly? What happened to Juliette?” Ygraine asked, looking a little hurt. “I asked the nuns to tell you, did they forget?”

“Oh no they didn’t forget, I did.” Martha’s blush deepened. “I forgot and then they left and I had to call ‘im something.” She was quiet for a moment. “It somehow doesn’t feel appropriate for royalty now does it?”

Crowley felt something in his stomach twist but he didn’t say anything.

“I suppose not, but what else would we call you?” Donna smiled at him. “Do you have any other names?”

He shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“Should we give you a new name?” Martha asked, ruffling his hair a bit. “Something fit for a prince?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “Sure,”

“What about James? Good strong name.” Donna suggested.

“Or Andrew?” was Martha’s suggestion.

Ygraine was a little hesitant before she said “Lillith?”

Donna nodded at her sister. “Marjorie.” She said, holding up a fist like a salute.

“Anthony.” Samuel said. “My father’s name.”

Crowley drew in a sharp breath. “Anthony.” He echoed.

Samuel’s face lit up under his curls.

“D’ya like that one, dear?” Martha asked. Crowley nodded. “Then I guess Anthony it is!”

“What about Juliette?” Ygraine asked. “It was your name before all this.”

“I could be both.” Crowley said. “Anthony Juliette.” He sort of liked the sound of it. Though it felt foreign on his tongue.

“Then it’s settled.” Samuel boomed. “Anthony Juliette Havorymn!”

Crowley wasn’t sure he was so excited about the last name, but he could worry about that later.

His name was changed again.

* * *

When they reached Gattenfall the sun was at its highest. Crowley was having a hard time thinking about anything. It was hot. Not much hotter than it ever got in Briven, but the air here was very different. It was dryer. It smelled a bit of salt, and a lot of dust. It wasn’t excessively unpleasant, but it was a big adjustment.

The carriage came to a halt, the passengers got out, and Crowley had to shield his eyes as the sun shone down from directly above. He grimaced, licking his lips against the heat, and tried not to think about water.

He was quickly shooed inside, and he realized he hadn’t actually gotten a good look around. The palace was built low to the ground, and the light stones under his feet glistened slightly in the right light. The room he was brought into was large, but not very tall, and the contents were not much more than a long table with chairs around it, and a variety of paintings and banners on the walls.

“This is the grand hall!” Ygraine started to babble. “We greet all our most important guests here, and today that includes you! Are you hungry? I’m sure we could have the kitchens prepare anything you wish. It has been a long journey.” She didn’t stop talking as she milled about the room.

Something as yet unnamed tugged at Crowley's belly, it wasn’t hunger, but he decided that for now it would be safer to call it that. “I could eat,” He said. It had been several hours since they left Briven.

Martha’s face lit up. “How about I make you some potatoes, kid?” She suggested. “Nice hearty meal, fill you up.”

Ygraine’s face faltered. “Oh, well, we do have servants for that here, Martha. You could try to cook something I’m sure, but they tend to prefer to do it themselves.” She looked apologetic.

It was Martha’s turn to falter, for just a fraction of a second, and Crowley got a better view at the beast between them. Just a glance, and then Martha smiled. “I should have figured, you see? In a palace you don’t make your own food. Maybe I’ll just go back to stitching things, yeah?”

Crowley suddenly didn’t feel like eating after all. The air was altogether too heavy. He had no idea what he expected to be able to do here; he was a little sleepy from the journey, and he was absolutely unable to articulate to himself or anyone else why he had thought it was a good idea to follow these strangers back to this palace that suddenly felt like it was closing in on him.

He looked around the room, found the nearest exit, and was about ready to bolt when Donna put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?” Crowley’s eyes began to water. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” She asked, moving around him to get a better look. She brushed a stray strand of hair from his face and he sniffled quietly.

The other adults in the room fell silent, and turned to look.

“I’m fine,” He said hastily, and shrugged her hand off. He stubbornly refused to wipe the tears from his face, or even to acknowledge they were there*. “I need to sleep.”

“Here, I’ll show you where your room is.” Donna said, and she held out a hand.

Crowley was too caught up in his own thoughts to pay much attention to where Donna was taking him. He simply let himself be led, staring at his feet and running through the events of the past week. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to find in those memories, perhaps a good reason to explain why he hadn’t told the well-dressed strangers to leave him alone.

Perhaps he was looking for the exact moment he felt he had just shut off.

He realized with a start, that he hadn’t actually been thinking much at all, and had been going through the past several days much like he was now, not paying attention and letting someone else lead the way.

He looked up, and he was standing in front of a very large bed covered in cushions and blankets the likes of which he had never, ever seen before. Not even at Hollyanne manor.

Donna left the room with an awkward smile, and he realized he hadn’t a clue where he was in relation to the grand hall they had come from, or to the entrance to the palace off the street, or even truthfully, home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*: Crowley did not ignore the tears out of any perceived threat or social expectation. He did it simply because to acknowledge the tears would be to acknowledge a whole lot more than that, and it was simply too much in the moment for him to handle.]


	6. Of Halls and Idols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Dowlings arrived in the Scorch, Harriet was not very excited about the sand. She’d grown up on the Island, and she’s spent a lot of time at the beach. Enough that she was sick of it. This wasn’t even a beach, though, the ocean was more than a hundred miles away.  
There was a river, a very big river, with lots of smaller rivers running through the town. There were tiny aqueducts and streams passing through buildings and next to roads, some shops had tiny bridges from their doors to the street. It was interesting, to be sure. Running water was commonplace near the sea but this place probably needed the extra help what with all the sand.  
“Ugh, sand.” She said, and Tad grunted an agreement.  
~  
Alternatively: Tad and Harriet are assigned to the Scorch, Tad as an ambassador like his father, and Harriet has her own ways to spend her time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins months before the previous one but it does catch up by the end.

Harriet Dowling had spent the first 21 years of life on the Island, and then the next three years after her marriage either home alone, or traveling. It was quite stressful, and she regretted not considering this aspect of her husband’s life before she had said yes to the proposal.

Her husband's name was Thaddeus Dowling III, or as he currently known by those close to him, “Tad”. He was a member of the noble Dowling family from the Mainland, and son of Thaddeus Dowling II, the Wash’s representative in the Hush.

The Wash was a unique nation, in that it had split many centuries ago, when a chunk of the population had left their Island roots to settle on the mainland. The two still considered themselves separate countries, but maintained close relations and healthy trade routes.

Weddings between those of notoriety on the Mainland and Island were often celebrated as a beacon of hope and unity. Tad and Harriet had enjoyed the spotlight as the golden couple of the wash for almost two years, during their six-month engagement, massive wedding, and the following year and change. They had been swamped with good wishes, letters and gifts during their honeymoon, and had been the darlings of the state for a time; Harriet had even been asked to open up a museum, and a cafe near her childhood home.

Three years after the wedding they were mostly forgotten; which was, as Tad had made quite clear, much more comfortable. She secretly missed it.

Tad and Harriert had been summoned to the palace via a letter received days ago, and they were just getting cleaned up and ready to go when their ride arrived. The letter had been an invitation to a Soiree of sorts. She knew better than to expect this would be an actual party, these events usually ended up with the “in-crowd” so to speak talking shop in a closed room, while the spouses and various arm candy of the day mulled about, sipping wine and spilling secrets.

The ride was mostly quiet; the two chatted a bit about this and that but their thoughts were both elsewhere.

* * *

When the Dowlings arrived, the door was held open by a very polite butler. They swept inside, gave each other a curt little nod, and went their separate ways. Tad was immediately swept up by Raven Sable, Crown Prince of Mainland Wash, and Harriet neatly tucked herself into a discussion in a corner of the front room with a view of the street and the boatyard just beyond.

For the first three hours, Harriet kept an eye on the room, looking out for someone she hoped to see. She would glance around, and if questioned would say she was looking for her husband. This was a lie.

After a time, she stopped looking, the party was beginning to feel stale, and the guests in the front room were getting a bit restless. They were all thinking about how to excuse themselves and silently daring each other to be the first to knock on War Room door.

A hand gently gripped Harriet’s bottom, for a fraction of a second, and then it was gone.

She stiffened a little in surprise, turned to see who it was, and lit up. Nothing outwardly changed, she was far too good at hiding it, but she excused herself from the conversation and headed in the direction of the kitchens. She knew full well that the second door to the left was a hallway that stretched just past the kitchens, and turned sharply toward the back of the house. No one ever went down there during these parties unless they didn’t want to be seen.

He was waiting for her, and as she turned the corner, she was hastily pulled into the shadows and kissed breathless.

When she pulled away to recover, the tall, pale man did not relent, moving instead to her throat and he greedily nibbled at the tender skin. He was very, very careful not to leave a visible mark.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you, Peter.” Harriet sighed.

“I’ve missed you too, my dear. But it’s only been a month since our last kiss.”

“A month is far too long,”

“Then you’re not going to like what I have to say, though I’m afraid I’m simply the bearer of bad news.” Peter sighed, and pulled away just a little to look Harriet in the eyes.

“Bad news?”

“I need you to do a very important job for me, Harriet.”

“Anything,” She promised, her head still swimming.

“Your husband is about to be assigned a post in the Scorch, I need you to go with him.”

She frowned. “Let’s not talk about my husband,”

“It’s really important, Harry. I need you to keep an ear out when you get there. Write to me about whatever you can, I want to know everything.” He began to kiss her jaw again, moving slowly down toward her shoulder. “Everything I’ve been working toward depends on it. Can you do this for me?”

“But when will I see you?” Harriet asked, breathless.

“It’s a temporary position, a year tops. But I’ll try to get down there to visit you, I promise.”

“How will I address my letters to you, people will think it strange that I’ll write you so much. Because I will, I’ll write you so many letters and I’ll miss you terribly.”

“I’ll miss you terribly as well, Harry. Address them to the name Azrael and they will get to me. I need to know everything, keep your eye on the Havorymns especially. Something is about to happen, I can taste it in the air.”

“I can’t taste you and it’s distressing.” Harry breathed.

He laughed, pressing her up against the wall again. “Better?” And then he pressed his mouth to hers once more in a careful, passionate kiss.

“Much.”

* * *

When the Dowlings arrived in the Scorch, Harriet was not very excited about the sand. She’d grown up on the Island, and she’s spent a lot of time at the beach. Enough that she was sick of it. This wasn’t even a beach, though, the ocean was more than a hundred miles away.

There was a river, a very big river, with lots of smaller rivers running through the town. There were tiny aqueducts and streams passing through buildings and next to roads, some shops had tiny bridges from their doors to the street. It was interesting, to be sure. Running water was commonplace near the sea but this place probably needed the extra help what with all the sand.

“Ugh, sand.” She said, and Tad grunted an agreement.

* * *

They had been in the Scorch for two months. Harriet had written no less than five letters, and she had so far received not a word from Peter.

She knew he was busy, that he had very important things to do and very important people to see, but she couldn’t help but miss him.

Harriet had made it a priority to make friends as fast as possible. She knew several of the guards by now, and had spent time in the kitchens carefully avoiding getting in the way of the bustle and making small talk whenever she could.

She had even spent time in the laundry, which had been a task she had not infrequently helped with as a child, so she found it quite easy to get in on the conversations when she was able to help. This way, she thought, she would be more likely to pick up on useful gossip, as Peter had requested.

Things were going smoothly, and Tad seemed more or less satisfied with his position as well. They began to chat in the evenings, about dinner or a shop they had found while wandering about. Tad had even confessed to Harry one night that he was very proud to be an ambassador, just like his father. And he hoped that he would be good at it. Harriet had confessed that it was much easier than she had expected to make friends here, and she finally felt useful.

It was, sort of nice.

* * *

> _ Peter, _
> 
> _ The Havorymns are planning a trip, my love. I overheard some of the guards make mention of their plans to travel to Hollyanne Manor in Briven. A guard told me Samuel and Ygraine were talking of retrieving something. There are whispers of conjecture, some think it may be an animal, or an idol, perhaps a family heirloom. I heard one woman in the laundry say it was probably a child, though whose I could not begin to speculate. _
> 
> _ They leave on the morning of the 20th and are expected to return on the 26th. There will hopefully be more I can tell you by the time they return. _
> 
> _ I miss you more and more each day, and await your replies with bated breath. _
> 
> _ ~Harry _

* * *

Two days later, she received a reply. It was the first she had seen since she arrived.

> _ My dearest Harriet, _
> 
> _ Deepest apologies from the bottom of my heart for the lack of reply. I’ve been involved in a very delicate negotiation and there simply hasn’t been time to sit down before tonight. _
> 
> _ I received your letters, you spoil me so and I’m so grateful for your help. There’s one more thing I need you to do for me, it’s very important. _
> 
> _ On the 27th, go to the fountain in the SouthEastern corner of Gattenfall, in front of the wall. Be there at four, and bring everything you can find out about the Havorymns and their return. Some of my associates will be there. I’m so thankful, and I know you won’t let me down. _
> 
> _ I hope that the Scorch has been good to you, I hate to think of anyone treating you poorly. I will make sure to take care of it for you if you ever run into a problem, tell me immediately. Enclosed is a special present, I hope you enjoy, _
> 
> _ Yours, Peter _

The “special present” turned out to be a poem, a salacious thing which carefully made mention of a birthmark on her thigh, and every time she thought of it her heart fluttered.

* * *

It was the middle of the day, bright out, and Harriet was just passing the grand hall when she saw the Havorymns had returned from their trip.

Harriet had not forgotten that today was the day, and she had been bustling about for hours hoping to be present when something happened. And here was her chance. She listened carefully, deciding she didn’t yet want to make her presence known. There had been a lot of secrets floating around and she didn’t want to scare them away.

“This is the grand hall!” Ygraine was babbling. “We greet all our most important guests here, and today that includes you! Are you hungry? I’m sure we could have the kitchens prepare anything you wish. It has been a long journey.”

“I could eat,” came an unfamiliar voice. 

Harriet peeked around the corner to see who had spoken, and her jaw almost dropped. The kid looked a  _ perfect _ mix of the King and Queen. Their hair was long and wild, braided down one side like Donna, and it was a rich color somewhere between Samuel’s dark curls and Ygraine’s red auburn. They also sported the Havorymn freckles, and tan skin that looked like it had seen a lot of sunlight.

While she had been processing this information, the poor kid had started to look sick, and was headed towards her holding Donna’s hand.

Miraculously, Harriet avoided being seen, and she slipped off down the hall to follow Samuel and Ygraine as they retired, hoping to pick up on any part of their conversation she could. She never could have foreseen this.


	7. Of Fish and Bracelets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unpleasant racket started up at the far end of the market. Looking up, he could see a glint of metal in the distance, and someone was shouting. It was hard to hear over the commotion of the market, and many people were managing just fine to ignore it.  
After several minutes, Crowley noticed a hush spread through the crowded square, and he turned to pay more attention.  
There were guards, fully armored and some of them armed, wading through the crowds, peeking into stalls and turning people around. They were looking for someone.  
~  
Alternatively: Crowley and Anathema hit it off and become good friends, Agnes is a cat, and Crowley finally gets to let off some steam (though it's probably not the best time and place)

When Crowley awoke, it took him a full 30 seconds to remember where he was, and after the panic died down it took him several minutes more to work up the courage to get out of bed.

The first solid thing about the room that he noticed was the very large window, the view through which told him that it was dark out. Moving closer to look out of the window he saw a river, with many trees and large rocks nearby, and he could hear frogs croaking. This was a relief, the sound was a comforting reminder of home, and frogs were quite fun once you get to know them. A better view also revealed that there was a gleam at the horizon which hinted at early morning. He turned to the room to explore.

The bedroom wasn’t much bigger than the front room of the cottage he had grown up in, and there was a full length mirror on one wall. He went to check it out, and realized that he was still wearing the dress he had arrived in. The material was dishevelled and it didn’t feel particularly comfortable anymore.

Looking around, he saw two doors. The first one revealed a closet, and it featured a variety of shirts and trousers that looked far too itchy for Crowley to handle at the moment. He shut it closed.

The other door opened up into a wide room that contained two more doors, and a couple of desks and shelves along the walls. In this room, Crowley found his packed belongings sitting on one of the desks. Gratefully, he shrugged out of the dress and went looking for something more familiar. When he was satisfied that he looked like himself, he took a moment to catalog everything in the bags. There were several books, several changes of clothes, a handful of particularly favored rocks, and a spattering of other random trinkets. There was also an entire bag full of seeds, dried plants, and some bulbs from his garden that he hoped would be able to handle the sandy soil in this new place.

He continued to explore.

The smaller door led to a tiny private bath, with a stream of water he assumed one could just funnel off of whenever one liked. How luxurious. He remembered his dry lips, and scooped several handfuls of cool clean water into his mouth. It felt luxurious too.

A glance out the window showed that the sun had risen quite quickly, and the world was beginning to wake up. He could hear a loud banging in the distance, and saw someone walking by with a cat trailing close to her heels.

He hadn’t made a sound, but the stranger turned around as if he had, and her glasses caught a flash of sunlight. Her long brown hair fell over her shoulder and she looked straight at Crowley.

He did the only thing he could think of, and ducked down below the window.

The last door took him into a corridor which looked a lot more elegant than anything else he’d seen so far. There were many more doors, each a couple dozen feet from each other, and each carefully decorated with a variety of animals and other reliefs carved into the walls around and between them.

But the one that really caught his attention was what he saw when he turned around to look at where he had just come through.

The door itself was the same size as all the others, and curled around it was a massive relief of a serpent, twisting around, tail by the floor and the head up near the top. There were smaller designs, of trees with fruit, and other animals. There were tiles and colorful stones inlaid into the wall, greens and browns and soft blue-grays. It was breathtaking. And, he hoped, easy enough to remember when he came back later.

* * *

Wandering through the palace was… difficult. The walls were all made of the same stones and the architecture was completely foreign. It did help that there was quite a lot of art in the palace, both hung on and built into the walls themselves. He imagined that if he could get used to some of the murals quickly it would help with navigation in the long term.

It was also very difficult because of the surprising number of people, all of whom looked very determined to get somewhere or do something. None of them so much as blinked at him, except once or twice to yell at him for getting underfoot. This, at least, was familiar territory, and he perked up a bit, trying to get used to the movement of this strange new ecosystem.

It took much longer than he had expected to find a way out. And as he stepped foot onto the road in front of the palace, it occurred to him that he hadn’t a clue where anything was. He hadn’t been paying attention as the carriage came into town the day before, and he wasn’t even sure if this was the same entrance he’d been ushered through upon arrival.

A very distracting scent wafted across his nose, and he followed it to a vendor at the edge of what looked like a market, though it was early and people were still just setting up. The food looked to be some sort of stew made with a meat Crowley had never seen before. But it smelled delightful.

He reached down to pat at his hip where he normally kept a small coin purse* but it wasn’t there. He’d left it in the room.

A cat appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and began to rub itself against his leg. Its fur was a dusty brown and subtly striped, and it had tiny white splashes on its paws and nose.

“Did your purse get snatched?” Came a voice from just behind his shoulder, and Crowley jumped.

He turned to see the girl with glasses. “No I, I think I left it in the- at home.” Crowley said, hoping she didn’t recognize him. He’d only been here a day, and he wanted to get a look around before people started to associate him with… whatever they would associate him with once they found out who he was.

“You hungry?” She looked him up and down as if considering something.

“Y-yeah…” And Crowley’s stomach growled loudly. “I’ve eaten nothing since yesterday morning.” he realized. He wished he hadn’t turned down dinner last night.

“Let me get you a bowl of stew.” The girl said, and she walked right up to the vendor and offered the woman a couple of coins.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” Crowley said, but the girl ignored him. She took the two wooden bowls from the vendor, and walked over to a spot around the edge of the market where a short stone wall was just the right height to sit on. She set the bowls down, and invited Crowley to sit beside her.

He did sit down, and saw there were also slices of bread sticking out of the soup. It was a dark, grainy bread, and it looked delicious. As he picked up the bowl, the cat reappeared at their feet, meowing expectantly. “You’re new around here, yes?” The girl said, plucking a chunk of meat from her bowl and dropping it to the ground. The cat lapped it up immediately.

“Arrived yesterday,” Crowley whispered, and took a hesitant bite of the stew. It was amazing, and he hungrily began to shovel it into his mouth.

After a few seconds he realized the strange girl was watching him, and she seemed to be trying not to laugh.

His shoulders drooped. “Forry-” he spluttered around a mouthful of bread.

“No no, don’t be sorry! By all means, enjoy yourself. But maybe remember to chew a little more, you don’t want to choke.”

Crowley blushed, and slowed down. It tasted better this way, when he could really appreciate the new texture. He swallowed. “I just realized, I have no idea what this is.”

“It’s fish.” The girl smiled. “The ocean isn’t too far away, we get a lot of fish and traded goods from the docks. Where are you from?”

“Briven,” Crowley said, watching the cat at their feet. He picked up a small chunk from his bowl and dropped it like he’d seen the girl do. The cat sniffed it, and then lapped it up too.

“You’re from the Belt,” She said, sounding interested. “Not a lot of people from the Belt ever leave. It’s farm country up there isn’t it?”

“Lots of farms, lots of vegetables and grains. Some fruit and livestock too. What about you, you from around here?”

“Originally I’m from the Hush, but I’ve lived here for a good few years. I know how to spot a newcomer.” She narrowed her eyes and Crowley very pointedly did not look at her. “Do you like fish then?”

“Yes, I think I very much do. Thank you, by the way. I’d pay you back but I’m not really sure how to get back to my room. I’m a bit lost you see.”

“It’s not a big deal, what goes around comes around.” She said. “Did you make your bracelets?”

Crowley looked at his hands, and realized that he was wearing several. He’d slipped them on before leaving, as a comfort he supposed. “Some of them. Do you see one you like?” he offered her a closer look, and she inspected them with great care.

“This one,” she said, pointing to a dark blue/green one.

“Have it,” he gently pulled it off his wrist and offered it to her. “For the soup.”

His wrist was a little bigger than hers, so he had to help her retie it. But once it was on it looked like it had belonged there for a long time.

“I’m Anathema.” She said, offering him her hand to shake.

“Crowley.”

“And that’s Agnes,” Anathema pointed to the cat, who had jumped up next to her and curled up. “It was a great great grandmother’s name, but sometimes I think she’s actually watching me through those eyes.”

“You never know.” Crowley said. “I’d believe it. Seen cats do some pretty strange stuff. Reincarnated grandmothers would probably explain a lot.”

* * *

After their meal, Crowley and Anathema spend a good deal of time exploring the market. Crowley had never seen such an assortment of clothing and fabrics, foods, art and supplies, bags, baskets, accessories, papers, books, crystals or pretty much anything else that was available.

He had met dozens of strangers traveling through the Belt, as most outsiders called it, many with their own collections and wares to sell. But he had never seen so many different options in one place.

As the sun began to reach its apex, Crowley was grateful to be out and about. Yesterday had been hours spent cooking in the tiny cab of the carriage. The market was held in a wide open space, there were many canopies to stand under, and the air didn’t move much but it still had room when it felt like doing so.

He didn’t buy anything, not yet. He figured he should wait until he could return to the palace. Perhaps he could get a job here, earn some money between studies.

It turned out that Anathema also liked plants, though her purposes were a bit different from his own. They still found plenty to talk about, and they both seemed very comfortable not talking about the reasons they were here. It suited Crowley just fine not explaining his complicated situation, he rather expected no one would believe him if he tried. Anathema also volunteered no information about her own family beyond the cat’s namesake, and they left it at that.

As the two of them were excitedly inspecting a rather splendid display of rare creatures and pets, (Crowley was particularly interested in a bright blue bird), an unpleasant racket started up at the far end of the market. Looking up, he could see a glint of metal in the distance, and someone was shouting. It was hard to hear over the commotion of the market, and many people were managing just fine to ignore it.

After several minutes, Crowley noticed a hush spread through the crowded square, and he turned to pay more attention.

There were guards, fully armored and some of them armed, wading through the crowds, peeking into stalls and turning people around. They were looking for someone.

He realized, with a sinking feeling, that he had snuck out that morning, and hadn’t told anyone where he was going. This wasn’t a big deal in Briven, Martha trusted that he knew what he was doing, he knew the area, and those he ran into were usually friends and neighbors.

But this was Gattenfall, the Scorch. He knew no one, he didn’t know where he was going, and he was, inconveniently, very important to some very important people.

“You gonna let yourself be found, or are you gonna run off?” Anathema asked softly. “Because I should warn you right now I’m not very athletic and I couldn’t keep up with those long legs of yours if I tried.”

He blinked at her. “How did you know?”

“That hair of yours in the window this morning. Kind of hard to miss. Also, you look so crushed.”

He considered his options for a moment, and then shrugged. “I don’t want to run, it’ll probably get me in more trouble. I’ll go and make sure if it’s really me they want. If I’m lucky, they’re looking for a thief and they’ll walk right past me.”

Anathema gave him a sympathetic look. “There’s a print shop in the NorthWestern corner of the city. ‘Device and Family.’ I’ll be over here for a while, if you aren’t in too much trouble. But if you are, you’ll know how to reach me.”

She kissed his cheek, and he turned around to face the guards who appeared to have already seen him. He began to walk toward them, hands open to signal he wasn’t going to run.

“Yeah, I recognize ‘er,” One of the guards said. “That hair is hard to miss.”

“Are you Juliette?” The other guard asked, stopping right in front of Crowley, who nodded. “We’ve been looking for you. Have you been here all day?”

“I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t realize I was missing.” Crowley said.

“The Queen’s been worried sick. We’re to take you to her, she’s over by the edge of the market.” The first guard pointed back in the direction they had come, where the shouting had started and there was now a clear circle around the Royal Family. Ygraine looked beside herself, Crowley could tell even from a distance.

“Then let’s go,” Crowley steeled himself, and began to saunter through the crowd. The guards followed close behind, and Crowley managed to throw a wink over his shoulder at Anathema. She grinned a little tightly, and held up a thumb. It helped a lot.

As he walked through the crowd, people began to notice the tall, lanky young person accompanied by two guards, which quickly became three, then five as others who had been nearby joined the procession. It was quite a scene, Crowley imagined, and he was almost proud of himself.

Samuel noticed the approach first. He visibly relaxed, and put a hand on Ygraine’s shoulder. She looked up at him, followed his gaze, and then ran forward as fast as she could towards Crowley. Everybody between them got out of the way very quickly, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and began to sob.

“I thought I’d lost you!” She wept, “My dear child where have you been? You disappeared, I thought you were kidnapped! Or lost! Or worse!” She blubbered, not caring that every single attention span in the immediate area was focused on the scene she was making. “Oh my darling child, why must you worry your mother so?”

Something deep down inside Crowley reared its ugly head, and all the feelings of the past week came frothing at the mouth to the front line.

“You’re not my mother.” Crowley whispered against Ygraine’s hair.

“What?” The shorter woman pulled back to look at his face.

“You’re not my mother.” he said, louder this time.

Several emotions flashed across her features before she settled on outrage. “How dare you?” She demanded, “I gave birth to you!”

“And that was the end of it.” Crowley snapped, “You left me with someone else, and now I’m someone else. You don’t get to show up and claim ownership of my life like it’s all some fairy tail.”

Ygraine’s face turned to devastated. “I-I didn’t-”

“You realize, we’ve spent a week together, and you’ve not once asked about my friends or family beyond Martha. You’ve complained about my hair, my clothes and the way I talk, but you’ve never bothered to think about why I am the way I am. I’m not an object you can hand off to a stranger for seventeen years and take back when you have room for me.”

“Juliette, I-”

“You are the only person, ever, to have called me that. You’re talking to someone who doesn’t exist.”

This time, Ygraine was silent.

“I’m going home.” Crowley announced, a little quieter.

“Do you know your way back to the palace?” Samuel asked, the first thing he’s said.

“That’s not what I meant. I changed my mind, and I won’t help you. I’m going home.”

Someone coughed, and Crowley remembered that they were, in fact, in public. Very public. Hundreds of people crammed into a very crowded space public.

He flushed, head to toe, absolutely mortified, and began to walk stiffly in the direction he vaguely remembered the palace being. The guards who had escorted Crowley thus far began to follow him, and at least a couple of them got in front to lead the way.

Crowley didn’t look back. He was too afraid of what he’d see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*: The coin purse was rarely actually filled with coins. If one were to shake it out over a table, the contents would more likely consist of sticks and stones, several rolls of string or twine, perhaps some jerky, nuts or otherwise long-lasting snacks, and maybe a ring or something shiny]


	8. Of Sour and Skins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though the location of the encampment moved around fairly often, and he’d barely been present for the last decade and a half, the basic arrangement of the tents didn’t change much. In the very center, usually the first structure up, was a very large round tent made of stained linens and animal furs. This was where Hastur was headed.  
When he got close, a lookout eyed him suspiciously, and asked “Who are you?” The kid couldn’t have been older than 16.  
“He in there?”  
The kid hardly blinked. “Yeah, he’s in there. Busy though.”  
“I don’t care.”  
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The kid said.  
~  
Alternatively: Hastur is an evil gross creep but that's nothing new.

Hastur had been caught entirely off guard when he had seen the approaching procession. He knew what he was in Briven for, but it had been so long. He had almost started to believe the day would never come, and that his assignment here was a complete waste of time.

Watching the Havorymns march up the hill had been a blessing, if Hastur had put any stock in such things. And while he hadn’t bothered to eavesdrop, he still knew exactly what was going on.

The Royals had come for the child.

If this went well, he could finally leave this godforsaken little hovel of a town and get back to his life.

* * *

“I’m here to see him,” Hastur rasped at the nearest sod, walking into the camp like he owned the place. “Where is he?”

“In his tent, like always. Piss off.” was the response.

Though the location of the encampment moved around fairly often, and he’d barely been present for the last decade and a half, the basic arrangement of the tents didn’t change much. In the very center, usually the first structure up, was a very large round tent made of stained linens and animal furs. This was where Hastur was headed.

When he got close, a lookout eyed him suspiciously, and asked “Who are you?” The kid couldn’t have been older than 16.

“He in there?”

The kid hardly blinked. “Yeah, he’s in there. Busy though.”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The kid said.

Hastur pulled back one of the tent flaps, took one good look, and backed up, letting the flap fall back down.

Neither he nor the boy said anything for several minutes.

The fabric folded out from inside, and a woman who looked both pleased and a little undone left, stalking off into the night with her head held high.

“Phineas!” Came a booming voice from inside the tent. “Got anyone waiting?”

“Yes sir!” Phineas shouted back. “Some bloke won’t give me his name, hasn’t been here long.”

The tent flap was pulled back again, and Balaam Wildblade himself peered out. “What the bleeding hell are you doing here?”

“I got news.” Hastur sneered. “It’s happening.”

Balaam’s face split into a wicked grin. “Then get in here, we’ve got much to discuss.” He held the flap open, and Hastur ducked inside. “Phineas, get my daughter.”

“Which one, sir?”

“Carmine.” He chuckled. “Get Red.”

* * *

Hastur had not expected to be the one sent to do the dirty work. He had already done 14 years of dirty work, and he quite frankly would have preferred falling flat on his face and sleeping for the next fortnight. But duty calls.

He had been assigned a small team, just three other agents so as not to arouse suspicion, and they had been sent to rendezvous with a Contact in Gattenfall before carrying out their orders. 

The team stalked down the streets of the city, hot and sullen. The place stank of bodies and musty wares, and Hastur really, really wanted to leave. He’d never been a fan of the Scorch, even before his allegiance to Wildblade. Too hot. Too dry. Too populated. He’d rather see it all burn.

They had arrived early to meet the Contact and hadn’t thought up anything to do in the meantime. Ligur had run off for all of ten minutes to buy a snack, otherwise the group had been lurking near the fountain for an utterly uneventful four hours. Most everyone else nearby had vacated the area, nearly all of them to get away from miasma of sullen malice which had been accumulating the entire time.

Finally, the Contact showed up.

As per protocol, a password was exchanged, some paperwork changed hands, and a hushed account of the latest developments in the city was delivered.

The Contact told Hastur of a very public embarrassment that had happened just hours before, and that the new princess had announced they intended to leave the city before they had even been introduced to the public. The plan was to take a carriage out that same night back to Briven, and that they were being sent with minimal guards for secrecy and light travel.

“Perfect.” Hastur slurred gleefully. “We’ll take it from here.”

* * *

The small group, led by Hastur, set out down the road from Gattenfall not much later. It was still hot, and the youngest of their numbers pulled a waterskin from their jacket. There was a brief scuffle over sharing it, before Hastur grabbed it and took a big gulp. Ligur, Garth, and the kid whose name he didn’t care to know watched him with malice.

“Keep moving.” He said, and continued down the road.

The kid, the one who had originally had the waterskin, zipped past him unexpectedly and snatched it from his hand. Hastur didn’t fight it.

* * *

They got to the edge of the woods, and considered their location. They were North of Gattenfall, just at the edge of the Belt, and not far to the West were the Territories. It was the most convenient route for most, though it wasn’t unheard of that Royals and Nobles would travel farther East to avoid the Territories with as wide a berth as possible.

It would, Hastur noted, muck up the plan if the brat and his nursemaid decided to go that route. But he was fairly confident that they wouldn’t bother with the extra security, especially in the hurry he imagined they would be in.

The group had just finished going over the plan a second time when they heard distant hoofbeats, and a carriage came into view from the direction they themselves had come.

“Show time.” Ligur said with a toothy grin, and the four of them slipped into the trees.

It was a little unoriginal, Hastur would acknowledge, but that didn’t make it any less effective. The chopped down tree was a great way to halt progression through the forest, and the road wasn’t quite big enough to easily turn around on, which meant that the guards needed to spread out to try to lift said tree.

This would be easy peasy.


	9. Of Trees and Jaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t yet make out what anyone was saying, the shouting was too loud and his ears didn’t work yet. He was carried a short distance, he couldn’t tell if it was in a straight line or through a maze, and then unceremoniously dropped onto the sandy ground. The blindfold was removed but not his restraints.  
Blearily, he looked around, and found himself in a patchwork tent piled high with furs and stuffed animals. Not the cute, friendly ones Crowley had seen at the Market, but actual remains of animals that looked too big to be real, and which stared at him with impassive boredom.  
“Is this the hidden princess then?" Came a booming voice. “Certainly looks like Samuel’s sprog.”  
~  
Alternatively: Crowley and Martha are kidnapped. Yeah I was surprised too.

The horses were nervous, and so were all four guards. Crowley could feel it in the air, something wasn’t right. He glanced out the window, and Martha looked up at him, dragged from her glum reverie. “What’s wrong, love?” She whispered.

“I dunno, but the horses aren’t happy.”

The carriage rolled to a halt.

“Why are we stopping?” Martha called to the guards, leaning out the window.

“Road’s blocked ma’am. Stay inside until we can deal wi-”

There was a crash, several curses, and a sickening crunch.

And then silence.

Martha and Crowley looked at each other in horror.

Not ten seconds later, someone was ripping the door off its hinges and a very big, dirty knife was held up by a strange man with a tattered grey coat. “Out,” he snarled.

They did as they were told. Martha went first, throwing her arm in front of Crowley and elbowing her way out past the man with the knife. Crowley slipped down right behind her, and he tried to stand tall. They didn’t get very far when someone grabbed Martha, dragging her away a few feet, and when Crowley moved to follow he suddenly found his own arms held tightly behind his back, and a sash was being wrapped around them to hold them out of the way.

“Hastur? What are you doing here?” Martha asked softly, bemused.

Crowley strained his head to see that the man who was currently holding him tightly was in fact Hastur, the man he had pranked on more than one occasion, and had lived just down the hill from them all his life. His heart sank.

“I’m to bring you to see someone very special.” Hastur sneered, and he turned to shout at a kid who looked for all intents and purposes like a beanpole. The kid was standing over the guards, kicking one of them with a delighted cackle. “Oi! Get your ass in gear, we gotta clean this mess up. Run ahead to the rendezvous point and get backup.” The kid flipped him off, but did as they were told. They jumped over the felled tree with practiced ease and disappeared into the woods.

Martha began to bargain. “Please, whatever you want, you can have it!” She tried, desperately. “Just let the kid go! He’s innocent, please just let him-” Her pleas were cut off, as the man with the knife hit her over the head with the back end. She crumpled to the ground, her mouth hung open and her eyes unfocused.

“Martha!” Crowley screamed, trying to pull free from the tight hold behind him. “No! Please! Let her go!”

“Not yet, kid.” Hastur chuckled. “We need to talk.”

Crowley felt a flash of pain sweep through his consciousness and everything went dark.

* * *

When Crowley awoke, his eyes had a hard time refocusing. And his sense of balance was wreaking havoc. It felt like the world was jumping, almost, in small bursts just short enough that he couldn’t get his bearings. His nose felt thick. And wherever he was it smelled appalling.

After several minutes, he managed to work out that his vision wasn’t working because his face was covered, a blindfold tied just a little too tightly over his face. Which partly explained the pressure in his nose. The rest of the explanation was that he was upside down. And, from what he could gather, folded rather inelegantly over a large crate.

The jumping stopped, but the sensation continued in his brain in aching pulses. He could hear shouting.

Without warning, someone grabbed him, and tossed him out of the wagon and into waiting arms. These new arms were huge, and Crowley could feel the unmistakable bite of metal across his skin. He assumed it was some sort of armor.

He couldn’t yet make out what anyone was saying, the shouting was too loud and his ears didn’t work yet. He was carried a short distance, he couldn’t tell if it was in a straight line or through a maze, and then unceremoniously dropped onto the sandy ground. The blindfold was removed but not his restraints.

Blearily, he looked around, and found himself in a patchwork tent piled high with furs and stuffed animals. Not the cute, friendly ones Crowley had seen at the Market, but actual remains of animals that looked too big to be real, and which stared at him with impassive boredom.

“Is this the hidden princess then?" Came a booming voice. “Certainly looks like Samuel’s sprog.”

Several other voices laughed, and Crowley noticed movement in the corner of his eye. Someone was carrying another body into the room. It was Martha.

He heaved, trying to sit up and make his way to her as she was dumped a couple feet away. He didn’t have much luck, his arms were tied tight and he was bruised all over. The laughter picked up again at his efforts.

“Now now, boy.” The booming voice said, and a man with beady, bloodshot eyes squatted down in front of Crowley. “Don't go hurting yourself. You’ve got a job to do for me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how you work for me now, kid. Do you know who I am?”

Crowley had a very good guess, but he said nothing.

“I am Balaam Wildblade, King of the Territories! I command armies the likes of which you’ve never seen!” The man sounded quite pleased with himself, and so did his company because there was more laughter, and shouting in the tent.

Crowley spat out a mouthful of dirt, which brought attention back to himself.

“What makes you think I’ll do anything you say?” Crowley hissed, and it came out much less panicked than he had expected.

Balaam’s face hardened, but before he could say anything someone else spoke up. “Aww, did you get started without me?” Came a high, silky, dangerous voice. A woman, only a few years Crowley’s senior appeared from outside, the tent flap fell shut behind her with a crisp smack that sounded very much like an animal snapping its jaws. She stalked across the room and stopped next to Martha’s prone body. “What’s her name again?”

Crowley could tell Martha was breathing, but not much else, her face was turned away from him.

“Martha,” he whispered.

“I think Martha’s gonna be staying here with us for a while.” She crooned. “Our hospitality may be lacking in some areas, but we could certainly make improvements. That is, if you help us out. Tit for tat, so to speak.”

“.... What do you want me to do?”

“Return to Gattenfall. Tell them anything, just make sure they take you back. That’s all for now. Once you’ve accomplished that, Martha here will be very happy.”

“That… can’t be all you want.” Crowley remarked, cautiously.

“Further orders will be delivered once you are in place.” She said it with such distraction, inspecting her nails. He noticed that they were coated in a bright red varnish, not unlike her curled hair.

A flash of movement caught his attention across the tent, and he caught a glimpse of dark eyes before the fabric of the tent was dropped again.

“Do you understand what you’re supposed to do?” The red woman asked, and Crowley scowled. He nodded, looking at the floor. “Excellent. Now, get this poor thing up and washed, he’s going back to the Scorch right away.”

* * *

He made it back to Gattenfall by late evening, four days after he had left. He rather thought it was a miracle he didn’t have more bruises than he did, after the way he had been handled. Perhaps the people in the territories were just really good at hiding their work.

That was a lovely thought.

Shaking his head in disgust, Crowley got out of the carriage (which had been driven and guarded by Balaam’s stand-ins to make it believable) and was greeted with the very stern face of Samuel Havorymn.

Neither of them said anything, but it didn’t take long for Crowley to burst into tears.

Samuel’s face shattered, and he pulled Crowley into a hug and held him tightly.

Crowley couldn’t tell him what was wrong, he couldn’t risk Martha’s life. He desperately wanted to. But he needed more time to figure out how to save her.

Ygraine! He remembered Ygraine and sobbed harder. It was going to be so hard having to face her after what he had said. He was miserable, and tired, and full of dread.

Oh how he wished he could turn back time.


	10. Of Fate and Rumors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word was spreading like wildfire, about the lost heir of the Southern kingdom. Some said that she had been kidnapped, and finally discovered when the King was on vacation. Some said that she was illegitimate, and that she was only now being recognized because the king was getting older and the queen was barren. Some said that the heir had been lost, stolen away and had turned up in the city with no explanation. Some said that the heir was actually a prince.  
Very few, but it wasn’t an insignificant few, were convinced the whole thing was a hoax. That whoever this kid was, they weren’t royalty at all, and that there must be some reason the royals were lying. Perhaps a bribe; or a threat.
> 
> ~  
Alternatively: Aziraphale is given a very important mission, and Michael tags along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you thought this fic was dead, PSYCHE  
I've just been swamped with volunteering and so many missed hours of sleep. sorry for disappearing, lmao

The Hush was ablaze with excitement.

Word was spreading like wildfire, about the lost heir of the Southern kingdom. Some said that she had been kidnapped, and finally discovered when the King was on vacation. Some said that she was illegitimate, and that she was only now being recognized because the king was getting older and the queen was barren. Some said that the heir had been lost, stolen away and had turned up in the city with no explanation. Some said that the heir was actually a prince.

Very few, but it wasn’t an insignificant few, were convinced the whole thing was a hoax. That whoever this kid was, they weren’t royalty at all, and that there must be some reason the royals were lying. Perhaps a bribe; or a threat.

Aziraphale had no idea what to think about the matter yet, and he rather expected he didn’t have any right to speculate. But it was exciting nonetheless.

Kicking his feet under the table, Aziraphale looked about the room, taking in the Ambassadors and cousins and his own siblings as they excitedly chatted and hypothesized. It was a meeting announced yesterday, when the rumors first started, and they all knew without saying what they were there for.

The doors at the far end of the hall opened, and Queen Madephine swept in, her small entourage of guards in tow. Her head was held high, and she had a confident smile on her face. Aziraphale always liked to see his mother smile, she lit up a room and commanded such presence it was hard not to smile back. He grinned, remembering to still his feet, and adjusted himself in his chair.

As the Queen reached the head of the table, the conversation died down, and the moment she was seated all eyes were on her.

“Thank you all for coming,” Madephine began warmly. “I trust you have all heard the rumors about the Scorch’s lost heir?”

The reaction in the room was almost comical, a wave of heads began bobbing enthusiastically. Aziraphale stifled a giggle.

“Is it true, then?” One of the Lords asked, raising a hand. “Is there really a new princess?”

“Yes.” Madephine said, and the room went wild.

“What happened to her?” An Ambassador asked loudly.

“Was he really kidnapped?” A Noble woman piped up.

“I heard she was raised by wild dogs, is that where she’s been?”

Aziraphale quickly lost track of who was talking, as the energy spiked and people began pouring questions from their mouths. It went on for almost a minute, before Madephine raised a hand and the room went silent again.

“Tell us more,” Someone said.

Queen Madephine put her hand back down, and began to explain. “The heir is legitimate, we received word not two days ago that they were found, safe and sound, and have been relocated to Gattenfall from Briven. The Havorymns are overjoyed to have their child back, and I couldn’t be happier for them.”

“So the child has been in Briven? How long?” Ambassador Dowling asked, scratching at his mustache.

“Seventeen years.”

“Seventeen years!” This was exciting and dismaying news, apparently, as conversation again picked up in a whirl of voices. There was irritation, accusations, and more questions. The discussion quickly dissolved into a shouting match, and Aziraphale suddenly felt like he wanted to crawl under the table until it was over.

“Please let me finish!” Madephine set her mouth in a tight line and glared about the room until it was awkwardly silent. “I trust that won’t happen again?” She asked, exasperated.

No one answered.

“Thank you.” The Queen took a deep breath before continuing. “The heir is just a few months older than Aziraphale. His name is Anthony, after Samuel’s Father, but I hear he goes by a nickname.”

“Anthony? You mean the child is a boy? We’d been hearing of a princess.” This time it was a General who spoke, her scarred face twisted in confusion.

“The Havorymns had expected a girl, and my understanding is that he sometimes presents as such.” 

This was when Gabriel kicked Aziraphale under the table. “Hey, bird brain.” the older whispered.

Aziraphale scowled. “What do you want?” He whispered back.

“Did you finish the materials that Sandalphon requested? He has been after me all morning.”

Gabriel and Aziraphale, it was widely understood, disliked each other. They had feuded most of Aziraphale’s life, over one thing or another; though it was usually difficult to determine what they were feuding over or why it had started. Even, though one could arguably say especially, to Aziraphale himself.

They had, in recent years, come to a terse understanding of sorts. The understanding went something like this: Gabriel would offload a particularly bookish task related to his studies onto Aziraphale, who loved books and would happily read them whenever he had a spare second. Aziraphale would read the material, make some notes, and hand it back to Gabriel, who would take the notes to his tutors in exchange for higher marks.

Gabriel’s end of the bargain, was that he had stopped shouting at, tripping, bumping into, harassing, and otherwise cajoling Aziraphale. And would even, on very, very rare occasions, bring him a book that was not related to his studies. Sometimes it was even about fairy tales. Sometimes.

“It’s sitting in the study, I’ll finish it by tonight.”

“Aziraphale, Gabriel,” Madephine called out, and Aziraphale froze in his seat. “Did you have something to share with the room?”

“Actually, I had a question.” Gabriel said, transitioning neatly. “What are we going to do about this new prince? Why have a meeting at all, just to confirm the rumors?”

“That is a very good question, Gabriel.” The Queen began. “In a gesture of goodwill, I’ve decided to send some of our finest scientists and tutors to Gattenfall, to aid in the new prince’s schooling. According to the letter I received from Samuel, Anthony has shown a remarkable interest in his studies. Also, to foster goodwill between our lands, Aziraphale will be going with them.”

Every eye in the room turned to Aziraphale, who sharply remembered his previous wish to crawl under the table.

“M-me?” He squeaked.

“Yes my son. Anthony is only a few months older than you are, perhaps you’ll become friends?” Only someone who knew the queen very, very well would have seen behind the mask of innocence she was projecting. She had ulterior motives. Aziraphale was too embarrassed to notice it, but someone else did.

“I will go with Aziraphale, if that’s alright Mother.” This time, every eye turned to Michael.

An entire conversation flashed between Michael and Madephine’s expressions in the span of a second, and without missing a beat Madephine answered, “That is more than acceptable, dear. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job looking after your brother.*”

* * *

After the meeting, Aziraphale made a desperate bid for his mother’s attention before she left the room. He managed, after a few attempts, by simply inserting himself between Madephine and the Gentleman she had been talking to, and staring up at her.

She smiled softly, and looked at Aziraphale, running a gentle hand over his short curls. “What is it, my love?” She asked.

“Mother, I have a question.” He glanced pointedly at her previous interlocutor, who bowed, a little flustered, and went to find somewhere else to be. When he was gone, Aziraphale looked back at the Queen and asked “Why are you sending me to Gattenfall?”

“I told you during the meeting, love. You and Anthony are close in age, perhaps you’ll get along.” She smiled, a look which hinted that she knew something he did not. “I know how much you loved it there last time, I heard you played in the river.”

He smiled at the memory, his governess and his poor attempt to roll up his own trousers. “It has been a while since I saw Ygraine,” he allowed.

Madephine looked at him with a warmth he rarely saw. And then she reached out, and took his hands in her own. “Aziraphale, this other prince, he has not been one for very long. He has spent so much time unaware of his significance, and it will probably be a big adjustment. I am sending you, because I know that you are patient, and kind. If you’re up to it, I think you could do a lot toward helping with that adjustment.”

Aziraphale brightened, basking in the compliments. “You want me to teach him how to be a prince?”

“Yes, my love. If all goes well, it could mean a great partnership for our kingdoms for years to come.” She kept his hands in one of her own, and ran the other through his hair again. “Can you do that for me?”

He nodded, feeling confident and self-assured. All he had to do was make a friend, how hard could it be?

* * *

What had he been thinking?

“Make a friend,” he’d never had many friends. Gabriel had always been more charismatic and compelling. While he was a jerk, he still managed to keep most of the court hanging on his every word, a trait that was probably useful for a future king.

And Michael was… well, Michael. Usually far too engrossed in fencing or whatever else one gets up to in the training hall, Michale had a habit of not talking to anyone, and still managed to have some semblance of a social life.

But it had never been something Aziraphale was good at, or even had much of an interest in. He would much rather be left alone, in the library or the study. He’d spent several years pointedly turning the servants away as often as possible, and by now most of them knew that the only acceptable reasons to interrupt him was if he was summoned by his family or if it was time for supper.

He sighed, and turned to face out the window of the carriage.

Aziraphale was used to traveling. He had been almost all over the continent, attending various palaces, manors and halls for various diplomatic reasons.

As the youngest of three, he had some wiggle room when it came to his duties at said locations. He did occasionally find the meetings worth attending, but they were generally boring and menial, and he had other things to do. He was used to being the afterthought on a journey. Typically it was his mother, or Gabriel who was going somewhere, and he would ask to go for the adventure or be brought along for company.

Being the one on a journey of his own was new to him, and he sort of liked the thought. Like he was on a fateful mission. He had promised his mother, and he wasn’t about to give this anything less than his level best.

Though he had no idea what to expect going into this, he felt important.

The effect was tainted, if only slightly, by Michael’s presence.

Michael was a very athletic, very battle-oriented person, and nearly every interaction Michael had with another person was informed by this. Every word, every movement, every breath was carefully calculated for maximum efficiency, be it kicking a ball or a persuasive word.

It was unnerving to most people, Aziraphale included, but he didn’t necessarily dislike Michael as he didn’t understand anything Michael did. Which included asking to accompany him on this particular trip.

The two siblings sat opposite each other in the carriage. The silence between them was relaxed, amicable even. Both were lost in their own thoughts.

Through the carriage window, Aziraphale could see a river, and he realized they weren’t too far from Hollyanne manor, the place where he had wandered off with a strange redhead so many years ago.

Fondly, he remembered how the two of them had met, frozen stiff with fear, and the bird on the other’s shoulder. It seemed such a silly way to meet someone. He remembered losing his book, playing in the river, and the snake he had held after several minutes of refusing.

He had been much better with animals since then, he realized. Much more comfortable with the horses in the stables, more likely to pick up a cat and pet it, and he had even come across another snake once when he visited the Scorch. It hadn’t been particularly interested in him, but he had followed it through the sand for a few minutes just admiring the way it moved.

Aziraphale realized, with a pang of guilt, he had never been back.

He had asked of course, several times, but it had never quite worked out. Perhaps now that he was almost of age, he could just... go by himself? Bring a couple of guards and go back to the manor, perhaps wander through town until he found the boy. Would they recognize each other? Would it be strange of him to show up after all this time? Would the other even want to see him?

Michael sneezed, and began grumpily rubbing the inflammation away. Michael’s face was red, Aziraphale realized, and it looked like a mild allergic reaction.

It was rare that the elder ever reacted to anything at all, and it was with humor that Aziraphale noted that this was the first time he had seen any hint of a break in Michael’s armor since he had been very small. It wasn’t any more serious than a couple of sniffles, and a grumpy “I’m fine.” when questioned, but it was still humanizing. He smiled to himself.

“What are you smiling at?” Michael demanded, in a voice just a touch thicker than usual.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing.” He said, cheekily. Michael didn’t press it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*Michael was less interested in watching over Aziraphale, and more interested in watching whatever the Queen had planned play out. Whatever it was, it was going to be interesting.]


	11. Of Ribbons and Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh! I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.” Anathema looked surprised, but not disappointed to see him. “What happened to your hair?”  
He couldn’t think of anything to say. Crowley had spent a good two hours trying to remember her instructions from the day they met, exploring the city, and had knocked on three doors prior to this one with drastically different results.  
All three of these encounters had been quite a drain on his already low resources and he was so relieved to see Anathema that words had ceased to matter much at all.  
She looked him over, his elaborate hair and bedraggled expression, and sighed. “Come in, then.” She held the door open, stepping out of the way.  
~  
Alternatively: Crowley was just asking for directions, why did it have to be this complicated? Also Spy-Finders™

Ygraine had been the most terrifying aspect of Crowley’s return to the Scorch. He had spent the entire ride back worried, running through scenarios of what he would say, how to apologize. Looking at her now, over Samuel’s shoulder; nothing could have prepared him for the guilt in his gut. She had said nothing, stepped forward with her head held high, pain and hope in her eyes. As soon as Samuel let go, she bit her lip, and looked ready to cry.

“I’m sorry.” His voice broke. Crowley was sorry more for his complicated situation than his outburst. But he was still surrounded by guards from the Territories and he couldn’t trust that there weren’t more nearby. He wondered if he would ever see Martha again.

“No.” Ygraine swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Every single word you said was true. It was unfair of me to expect what I did of you, and I hope you can forgive me.” It was truly impressive, she managed barely a wobble in her voice. But it was clear that she meant every word.

From what little Crowley had ever heard of any royal family, admitting wrongdoing seemed pretty out-of-character. And he hadn’t expected such a concession. He had been so stunned, it had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. He started to sob, his knees buckling.

Ygraine managed to catch him just in time, worry plain on her face. Crowley simply reached out and let himself be held. Her perfume was subtle, she smelled of oranges and cinnamon. Through the haze of his tears he could make out her words. “I’d like to figure out who we can be together, from here on out.”

He found himself wishing it were that easy.

* * *

He spent the next several days in his rooms, barely leaving his bed. It didn’t feel all that safe, but everywhere else felt worse. Servants brought food and left it in the main room, and took it away after a few hours. He wondered if it was thrown out, or if the servants got to take it home.

On the morning of the fifth day, he begrudgingly pulled himself out of bed to use the bathroom. When he returned, he inspected the food on the desk with disinterest. Next to the tray was a glass of water, which he drank (only because his lips were beginning to crack), and a letter.

Absently, he picked up a chunk of bread and nibbled, not really tasting it. He opened the letter.

> _ “The entourage from the Hush will arrive in two day’s time. Martha would appreciate it if you would keep an eye on the Princes. Take notes, leave them under the mat at your bedroom door. Don’t disappoint her.” _

He put the bread back down, and screwed up his face. He needed to get out of here.

Taking one more look around the room, he remembered that he was, in fact, some sort of public figure now, and he didn’t want to attract a lot of attention. Pawing through the closet for a few moments yielded a long, grey scarf with no pattern to speak of and a green ribbon trim. It would have to do.

Wrapping it carefully around his hair, he slipped out of the palace and went to find the one person in this town he had any confidence he could trust. He made sure to leave a note of his own this time, to avoid a repeat of the previous disaster.

* * *

“Oh! I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.” Anathema looked surprised, but not disappointed to see him. “What happened to your hair?”

He couldn’t think of anything to say. Crowley had spent a good two hours trying to remember her instructions from the day they met, exploring the city, and had knocked on three doors prior to this one with drastically different results.

The first had been a man who had recognized him from the incident in the market, and had been quite confused to see him again. Crowley had awkwardly explained that that unfortunate business was sorted out, and who he was. It had then taken several minutes to convince the man that he wasn’t on any sort of official royal business, just looking for someone, and to please get up off the floor, he wasn’t going to have him punished for tax evasion. The man hadn’t known where the “Device & Family” shop could be found, and was ultimately unhelpful.

The second had been a stubbornly suspicious seven year old with blonde curls who seemed to be the only person home. Crowley had politely asked if the child knew where the print shop was, and had been bombarded with a series of questions on why he wanted to find the shop, who he wanted to meet, and if he had any sweets. Upon revealing that he was, in fact, not possessed of any sweets and hadn’t realized he should have been, the door had slammed in his face. He had made a mental note to find some candy to keep in his purse.

The third had been a much more helpful encounter, but by far the longest. The woman who opened this door hadn’t recognized him or asked for sweets, and had in fact known where the Device & Family shop was. But she had been very interested in his hair, asked to braid it, and before he could say anything more she had pulled him inside and sat him down on a stool.

She had been very talkative, not allowing him a word in edgewise, and had spent nearly an hour with a brush and some ribbons, arranging his locks into a complicated work of art. As soon as she was done, she had walked him a few blocks over, given him directions, and pushed a shiny coin into his hand, asking that he please come back another time, she did so enjoy the company.

All three of these encounters had been quite a drain on his already low resources and he was so relieved to see Anathema that words had ceased to matter much at all.

She looked him over, his elaborate hair and bedraggled expression, and sighed. “Come in, then.” She held the door open, stepping out of the way.

* * *

“I am scared, I’ve never been so scared, and I can’t tell anyone else what’s going on.” Crowley was sitting on the bench in the back room of the print shop. The smell of Ink and grease was a little overwhelming, and it made Crowley’s head feel fuzzy.

Agnes was sitting on the bench between them as Anathema scratched her head; her soft tail brushing against Crowley’s thigh as it flicked it back and forth.

“I’m so sorry.” Anathema said quietly. “It’s so unfair. No one should have to deal with that sort of misfortune.”

“Obviously I can’t tell anyone in the palace, there could be spies all over. And I have no idea what to do about it.” He tugged absently at a braid with a dark green ribbon threaded through it.

“Then you’re taking a huge risk telling me,” Anathema gave the cat another scratch and then put her hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “How can I help?”

He considered this for a moment. “I’m not sure if there's anything either of us can do right now.” He wasn’t even sure if there was ever going to be a way out of this. It would require a way to save Martha, he knew that much. But how to tell the Havorymns and pull it off without alerting Balaam’s spies was the hard part. Clearly there were politics at play he couldn’t comprehend, he’d only found out about his origins a few weeks ago. There could be hundreds of spies in the city and he’d never know.

“Do you think you could give them false reports?” Anathema suggested.

“What if they have someone else nearby who told them something else?”

“Good point.” She removed her hand and went back to stroking the cat. “What about incomplete reports? Tell them stuff it would be easy to find out. Where they are and suchlike. Don’t give them details, make it sound uninteresting.”

“That might work.” There couldn’t be too many spies, he reasoned. The letter had asked him to take notes, they needed someone close to the visiting heirs. This meant they may have eyes here but not everywhere they needed eyes to be. He could use that to his advantage.

“If you stay close to the other Princes, like the note says, you can control what information gets to the spies. And keep an eye out for anyone else who might be keeping an eye on them. You could narrow it down, maybe even tell the King and Queen eventually.”

Cautiously, Crowley allowed just a little bit of hope to bloom. “If I knew who to avoid, it could be that much easier to get help.”

Anathema’s eyes shone with excitement. “I’ll be right beside you. We’ll be a secret spy-finding team!”

It suddenly hit Crowley exactly what he was getting her into. “I don’t want to get you into any trouble. This could be dangerous! Martha’s already gone, and I hate to think what could happen to you if we get caught.”

Her expression changed to one of mischief. Anathema reached down, pulling up her skirt to reach into her boot, and withdrew a long knife. “Don’t you worry about me, I know how to take care of myself.”

Crowley laughed at that, some of the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding drained from his shoulders. “So what should we do with our newly formed spy-finding team?”

Anathema wrinkled her nose. “Find something else to call it. Now that I’ve heard it aloud it doesn’t sound right.”

He nodded. “We can come back to that.” Agness jumped down from the bench, trotting across the print shop floor and scratching at the door. She meowed. “Maybe we should wait. The princes won’t be here for another couple of days.”

“Then we find a way to pass the time until then.” Agnes meowed again, and Anathema got up to open the back door a crack. “What were some of your favorite things to do in the Belt?”

“I ran through the woods, stole fruit from the manor gardens, pulled pranks.” He smirked, remembering the look on Hastur’s face when he’d seen the strings.

Hastur.

The smirk evaporated.

The cat waffled at Anathema’s feet for a while before actually leaving, slipping through the door like water before Anathema shut it in exasperation. She put her hands on her hips and tutted, before turning back to face him. “Then let’s pull a prank.”

Crowley shook his head. “I had planned to pull one when I first got here but I didn’t have time.”

“Did you have anything in mind?”

He thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“I haven’t pulled a good prank in ages.” She mused, placing her knuckles under her chin in thought. “Let’s go back to the market for inspiration.” Anathema grabbed her purse and a pot of ink from a shelf. “Just in case,” she whispered conspiratorially, and Crowley smiled.

He followed her out the back door onto a narrow alley, with a water channel along one wall full of gunk, and smelling of refuse. The cat was nowhere to be seen.

Anathema was walking along the little alley and into the street proper, not bothering to wait for him. He had to jog a bit to catch up.

Crowley remembered his scarf, pulling it over his head again He wanted to avoid more incidents like the groveling tax-dodger from earlier.

* * *

It took less than an hour for Crowley and Anathema to find their inspiration. They had passed by a booth selling various fabrics when Crowley’s eye landed on a bolt of white gauze.

He had reached out and grabbed Anathema’s arm, pointing to it with urgency, and she had given him a look of pure confusion.

“Ghosts.” He said, the only word he could manage around his excitedly jumbled thoughts.

She grinned a grin he recognized well, and they began to plot.

A spirited haggling and several stolen pillows* later, Anathema and Crowley had set up shop in a less-used corner of the palace and set to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*The pillows were not actually stolen. They were taken from Crowley’s bed, which he had yet to really think of as his own, but also the idea of stealing them added to the excitement of the afternoon so he decided to roll with it.]


End file.
